Looking for Hawkeye
by Nikolaos
Summary: Clint Barton, weapon for hire. Not the life he envisioned himself having, but it was better than nothing, better than what he had come from. Even if he did have no control on where he got sent. But one man in a suit wants to change all that, he just has to find him first. Pre-SHIELD. How exactly did Hawkeye come to be on SHIELDs radar?
1. Chapter 1

AN: I own nothing. (Not even the PC this has been typed on!)

I wanted to try my hand at a Hawkeye recruitment fic, I admit it takes a while before we see anybody from SHIELD but hopefully that will add more to the excitment (?) Thoughts and opinions appreciated. Enjoy!

-A-

Clint sat on the corner of the high-rise looking out over the city. Tokyo wasn't so bad and after three months he was even starting to learn a bit of the language. But he wanted to go back to the US. Unfortunately he had another three months left on his contract here, and even when this contract was finished there was no guarantee that he'd get to go home. His boss could send him anywhere.

Clint was owned by one Antonio Moretti, head of the Italian Mafia Family that was based in Baltimore. Moretti would loan him out to other business men for a very large price, contracts were drawn up, terms and conditions applied. Clint Barton was a weapon, nothing more. He had no say in where he went or when. If you had the money you could purchase Clint for a set period of time to complete one or many jobs of your choosing. Not the life Clint had envisioned for himself but it was better than nothing, better than what he had come from.

"Ah man, what is it with you and rooftops?" asked Daiki coming up behind him. Clint had heard the roof access door open, so he didn't startle when the nephew of his current owner spoke. He didn't even bother to turn around, let alone answer. He knew Daiki wasn't finished. The man spoke way too much for his liking. "And do you have to sit on the ledge? Kimura will be pissed if you fall. He paid a shit load for you."

"I don't fall," muttered Clint, scowling that Daiki would bring up his ownership.

"Uh-huh, I won't remind you of the job you pulled three weeks ago then," laughed Daiki still standing three feet away from the edge.

"I was pushed," growled Clint. He still had some of the bruises from that incident, not to mention his fractured ribs were still healing. But considering the man who had pushed him was dead, by Clint's hand. Clint still considered himself the winner.

"Right, whatever. Boss wants you," said Daiki walking back towards the roof door. "Like stat."

Clint rolled his eyes, if he ever found out who gave Daiki the complete boxset of ER to watch he would kill them very very slowly. Climbing down from the ledge he followed Daiki inside. He'd learnt a long time ago that when it came to taking orders from the men who owned him, you didn't make them wait. No matter who they were.

-A-

Daiki led Clint down the stairs and surprisingly into the main bar and not Kimura's office.

Kimura was sitting in the corner with his right hand man, Haru discussing something that looked important. Both of them were frowning.

Clint took his cue from Daiki on when he should bow his head in respect. That was still something he was getting the hang of. The customs in Japan were very different from anything he'd come into contact with before, even the Russians weren't as complicated as these guys.

"I have another job for you," said Kimura raising his head to look at Clint.

Clint stayed silent. He found that was always the best policy with these guys. Forget customs, you couldn't fuck much up if you didn't talk.

Kimura slid a photograph across the table towards Clint. Picking it up Clint saw it was grainy image, obviously taken from a distance with a lens that had an inadequate zoom to it. Not the best thing to work with when carrying out a hit.

"These Bōsōzoku have become too much of a nuisance. Take them out. Take them all out," ordered Kimura.

A small hitch in Daiki's breath was the only clue that this job was not going to be straight forward. He didn't even know what a Bōsōzoku was. So he asked the only acceptable question he could at this point. He'd get more information from Daiki later. "Where do I find them?"

"They own a warehouse on the waterfront," informed Kimura before striking up conversation with Haru again. That was his cue to leave, he'd been dismissed.

"What's the deal?" asked Clint as he followed Daiki out of the building and into the street.

"Deal?" asked Daiki in confusion.

"Yeah, why is this job worse than any other? And what's a Bōsō...?" Clint waved his hands around indicating that he couldn't remember the rest of the pronunciation.

"Bōsōzoku," laughed Daiki. "They're low life street thugs who really like their bikes. But they're dangerous, love their weapons and are always in large numbers." Daiki stopped laughing and turned to face Clint. "This group in particular are bad news. There's no way you'll be able to take them all out."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," huffed Clint as he pocketed the photo and started walking down the crowded street.

"You don't get it Barton," yelled Daiki stepping into Clint's path. "These guys are killers."

"News flash, so am I," growled Clint.

"Not like this you're not, not like them."

"Daiki, Kimura wouldn't send me to do a job that I have a likely hood of dying on. It's a breach of contract."

"You think my uncle cares about a contract? If it suits his needs he'd send his own family to their deaths. It's just business."

Clint looked at Daiki in surprise, "You're serious?" Clint didn't have much knowledge on how families should behave, let alone have any experiance on the matter. But from what he had observed from Moretti, family was important. Hearing this from Daiki didn't sit well with him. If this truely was going to be some kind of suicide mission it might be enough to void his contract.

"Hell, yeah," shouted Daiki. "Look, I like you man. You're a good guy, but there's no way you can win this one."

"I'm not a good guy, Daiki," sighed Clint as he started walking again.

"Where are you going?" asked Daiki to Clint's retreating back.

"To see a friend."

"You don't have friends," called Daiki as he watched Clint turn the corner and out of view.

-A-


	2. Chapter 2

-A-

Clint walked across the city towards the financial district, although he was on loan to a sector of the Yakuza he was still expected to check in with the men Moretti had in the city. Using the back entrance to one of the office blocks he used the stairs to climb the fourteen stories to where Moretti's men were based. To the general public the office was just another legitimate business that dealt in the finances of wealthy men. To the criminal underworld it was still a business that dealt in the finances of wealthy men, their methods of gaining what was owed was just slightly different. Quite frankly Clint didn't care, so he took little notice of what they did during the daytime. He just obeyed the rules of not paying a visit during trading hours. Which is why he was here at nearly midnight.

"Barton, what are you doing here?" asked Alberto as Clint walked into the office. "You're not due to check in for another four days." Alberto Falco was the head of this sector of Moretti's organisation. In a world that was filled with dangerous men all scrabbling for power, Clint thought Falco was one of the fairest men he'd met. But that didn't mean he trusted him.

"I know," shrugged Barton.

"What's the problem?" sighed Alberto.

"I need to know all about a Bōsōzoku group down by the waterfront," Clint said handing Alberto the photo. "Kimura wants me to take them all out."

"All of them?" asked Alberto in disbelief. "Clint you're good but how do you plan on taking out twenty highly skilled Bōsōzoku? And that's a low estimation of their numbers."

Clint shrugged, "From a distance."

Alberto sighed, "Kimura knows the terms of the contract. Any serious harm that would debilitate you in performing your job makes the contract null and void."

"Yeah, I don't think he cares," spat Clint as he slouched down in one of the chairs in front of Alberto's desk. "Can't you pull me out?"

"Unfortunately just because we assume this is a suicide run we can't take you back before the contract comes to an end. We'd need proof," explained Alberto.

"Fantastic," growled Clint as he pushed himself up. "Make sure you have the Hurst on standby. That'll be your fucking proof." Clint snapped as he stormed out of the office. His opinion on Alberto decreasing dramatically, he was now a walking dead man.

-A-

Clint traveled by rooftop towards the waterfront. Kimura hadn't specified a time limit to get the job done by, but Clint knew it was the same as all the jobs Kimura had given him. Forty-eight hours. Which meant he only had tonight and tomorrow to get his recon done so he could find the best time to hit the place. Then tomorrow night he'd get the equipment he needed so he could complete the job.

It sounded so simple when you just listed the details. But lying down on his stomach on the roof of an adjacent building as he started to count the men going in and out of the warehouse in question he knew this was going to be anything but simple.

The hours ticked by all the time Clint stayed still and watched the men come and go, he could already see a pattern developing but as the sun started to rise, Clint knew he needed to move or risk being spotted. Jumping to the ground he used the shadows of the surrounding buildings to walk the perimeter of the target building. The warehouse in question had small windows high up, but all of them were painted black so he couldn't see inside. This ruled out the use of using his rifle to pick off the targets inside.

The warehouse had two exits, one big drop down garage door at the front which was used as the main entrance for both men on foot and on bike. The second door was a small single door at the back of the building. So far he hadn't seen anybody use that door. He needed to see inside the warehouse, but going in by either door was not an ideal choice when he couldn't be sure of what was on the other side.

What he did like though was the window on the roof. He'd seen it during the night and from what he'd glimpsed through the main door, there was a small catwalk on that side of the building. He could drop through the window and onto the catwalk easily. He'd be out of view from the main floor and with such a narrow walkway, if there was somebody up there he wouldn't be overwhelmed with numbers that he couldn't make a tactical retreat.

The sun was high in the sky now and for the first time in hours there seemed to be less people around, if he wanted to have a look inside this was the time to do it.

Using the drainpipe on the far side of the building he shimmied up and onto the roof. Moving silently he made sure his shadow didn't cover the window and risk exposing himself. Looking at the seal of the window, he could see no obvious wires indicating that the window had an alarm attached. Pulling out his knife from his boot he hooked it between the latch and with a sharp snap of his wrist he broke the lock. Keeping his knife out just in case there was somebody who might see him he opened the window and dropped silently down onto the catwalk.

Listening carefully he took note of his surroundings; thankful that the catwalk was empty and nobody had noticed his arrival. Looking over the edge and down onto the main floor he saw it was just one big open room. Both doors were visible from his current position and looking towards where the windows were, he was glad he hadn't tried going in through them as there was nothing but a sheer drop to the ground below.

Taking stock of the contents of the warehouse, there was a lot of bikes inside. Complete ones and those in pieces. In the far corner there was a raised area where a couple of sofa's and soft chairs were sitting, not to mention six men and one woman. All of which looked asleep to Clint. It would be so easy for him to take them out now. But Kimura wanted the whole group gone, taking out those six would just make his job harder to take out the rest. From his count last night he got up to twenty-nine men at the warehouse at one time but who knew if that was the whole group. It wasn't like these guys kept a list of who was welcome in their secret club house. What he did know was that he had to take out most amount of numbers in one go, then if he was still alive he could pick of the rest another day. Or with any luck the group would just fizzle out. But that was just wishful thinking and he wasn't in the practice of deluding himself.

Taking one last stock of the inside of the warehouse he took particular interest of where the fuel canisters for the bikes were stored before moving back beneath the window and pulling himself up and out onto the roof. A plan already formulating in his mind. Closing the window gently he moved across the roof and leaped the gap to the next building. He'd go find another vantage point and observe for a few more hours before going on a supply run.

-A-


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** Thank you to all who have reviewed and marked this as a favourite. Enjoy!

-A-

There were many things that Clint hated about his 'ownership' but the one that was really bugging him right now, the same thing that bugged him before any large job he pulled was that he had to pay for his supplies himself. Yes, he got paid for being in service to Moretti and when he was on loan to other organisations he got his pay check from them. But it was hardly a large fee and weapons did not come cheap. It was just another string that made up his leash. So he worked around it.

Counting all the cash he had stored away he knew it wouldn't be enough for what he had planned. He could ask Daiki for help acquiring the supplies but the idea didn't sit well with him. Daiki would be obliged to inform his uncle who would go one of two ways, he'd be allowed to carry on with his plan, or he'd get told to think of something else. Clint would rather not take the risk that Kimura would tell him no. This plan was his best option for staying alive, he wouldn't change it now.

The same went for going to Alberto, except with Alberto they'd be more lecturing involved. Especially since he'd left Alberto's office last night without being dismissed. Alberto might be fairer than most men in the criminal underworld but that didn't mean that he'd stand for any disrespect. Which left Clint one final option, he had to find more money on his own.

There were several ways of doing this. Card games with an added sleight of hand thrown in. But that could be a lengthy process as you had to find the right game to start with. Then there was pick pocketing. There were plenty of wealthy business men and tourists in Tokyo, both of which carried lots of cash on them. If he kept moving he could keep picking pockets for a good few hours before the police were alerted. By which time he'd be long gone.

Grabbing his jacket and rucksack he headed out for a slightly less than honest day's work. He might not like talking about his days in the circus but he'd been taught and perfected many skills in the years he'd been there. Skills he put to use now with ease and for that he would always be thankful for those teachings, even if some of the lessons had left permanent scars on his mind and body.

Pushing all those dark memories back into the lock box he kept in his mind, he didn't need to think about his past. He couldn't change it, so there was no point dwelling on it.

-A-

Clint had been picking pockets for a few hours now, by the weight of his bag he thought he'd got a good haul. A few more and he'd call it a day. Whatever he had he'd have to make do with. That's when it went wrong.

Brushing up against a Caucasian man in a black suit he found his wrist suddenly grabbed as the man turned around and pulled him in close.

"Nothing there but trouble, kid," said the man staring into Clint's eyes.

Stunned Clint froze, but just as quickly as the man had grabbed a hold of him he let go and turned and walked away. Clint watched as the man got lost in the crowd. The sudden adrenaline that had rushed though him from being caught was fading fast and leaving him shaken. Nobody had caught Clint in the act of picking their pocket since he was nine years old. The smack around his ear his brother had given him that day had made sure of that. Yet this guy not only felt the pick but also was quick enough to catch his wrist, but more surprisingly was that he let Clint go.

Definitely time to call it a day before his luck changed for the worse. Slipping through the crowds he moved in the opposite direction that the mystery man went. It was time Clint went to go get his supplies and complete the job.

- A-

Clint was positioned on the roof of a warehouse opposite his target. He'd waited until it was closer to midnight when it seemed the numbers of the Bōsōzoku in and around the warehouse were highest. Standing up and positioning his newly acquired grenade launcher he couldn't help but smile as he fired. The amount of gasoline inside the building was going to make one mighty firework display. Then like moths to a flame all the bad guys would come out of hiding and make Clint's job of picking them off one by one that much easier.

The first grenade went straight through the top window, followed by the second one going through the open garage door. Clint felt the heat of the explosions from where he was already moving to his next position. Laying down with a sniper rifle that he had already set up he set his sight on the main door. He'd blocked off the small back door of the warehouse earlier that night on his way to his start position. If people wanted out of that warehouse they were coming out the front, directly into his line of fire.

Clint fired his first shot at the men standing outside the warehouse, before anyone realised that they were under attack and not witnessing a freak accident of their HQ going up in flames. Within seconds though men were stumbling out of the warehouse, their bodies on fire and screams coming from their burned throats. Clint took each of them down with a single shot to the head. Killing didn't bother him, but he wasn't a sadist. He made his kills quickly, he didn't make them suffer, not like that.

The people who weren't on fire were looking around in confusion and panic. The realisation dawning on them that this was no accident. Some tried to ride away on their bikes but Clint took them out too. Others had their guns out and began searching the area for him.

He knew at some point they'd work out where he was positioned so he wasn't surprised when the return fire started, he had only hoped that he'd had more time to pick off a few more first.

Rolling backwards so he was away from the edge he left the grenade launcher and the rifle on the roof while he got to his feet and started running towards the next roof. Pulling out the handgun he had positioned at the back of his pants waistband he fired two shots down into the alley as he jumped the gap between buildings. He had seen two men run into the ally when the shooting started, both men now lay dead as both bullets hit their intended targets before he'd even landed.

Clint rolled as he hit the second roof picking up a sub-machine gun he'd positioned there earlier. Turning to face the now burning warehouse, the flames rising several feet above the roof illuminating the entire area, he let off a quick burst of ammunition into the growing crowd of Bōsōzoku as they attempted to re-group.

A noise from behind him made him turn quickly to see three men climbing onto the roof, all with guns and all aiming at him. Diving behind a nearby AC vent he took cover as bullets hit the spot he had just been standing in. So he hadn't planned on them coming up to the roof but it made little difference. He waited until there was a pause in gunfire that told him the men were reloading, only then did Clint stand up and return fire.

_Pop, pop, pop. _

Three shots. Three more dead Bōsōzoku.

Clint looped the strap of the sub-machine gun over his shoulder before he stepped off the roof. He landed in a crouch on the lid of a closed dumpster that was positioned in the alley he had just jumped over. Dropping down to the floor he edged towards the end of the alley and peered into the main forecourt only to get shots fired at him. Lunging backwards to save himself he took a deep breath before he pointed the sub-machine gun around the corner and returned fire until he had no ammunition left. Not the best of tactics, but it would do one of two things. One if he were lucky it would take out the guys firing at him. Or two it would just give him time to sight better for when the opposition reared their heads again from wherever they had scrambled to.

Casting aside the bigger gun he un-holstered the handgun he had strapped to his left thigh. The joys of being ambidextrous meant his aim was excellent with both hands, though he did favour his left. With a handgun in each hand he stepped out of the alley. Two bodies were on the floor in front of him, then like the game whack-a-mole guys started popping up from behind crates, and bikes and burning piles of trash. Each guy that popped up went down with a head shot from Clint.

Then just when Clint thought it safe to think things were actually going well, that he might actually leave this place alive a sharp pain exploded in his side. He went sprawling forward, hitting the ground hard. Gritting his teeth he pushed himself up into a sitting position just in time to catch a boot aiming for his head.

In one swift move Clint stood up while keeping a hold of his attackers leg. He grunted as pain in his side spiked. Ignoring the pain for now and the urge to look down to see how bad the wound was, he instead sent his right elbow down in a crushing blow to the guy's knee. Clint let go of the now screaming man as he simultaneously pulled a long knife from where it was sheathed down his spine his back and swiped it across the man's neck. Blood spurted from the wound; he had cut both the carotid artery and the jugular, but also the man's trachea. The screaming stopped instantly as the body collapsed to the ground.

Clenching his teeth Clint pressed his right hand to his right side, the feel of his own blood started to cover his fingers. A bullet had ripped through his side just above his hip. On the positive side there was an exit wound which meant the bullet was no longer inside him. On the negative side it meant he had two wounds to deal with, both of which were bleeding profusely and to add more pressure to the situation he could now hear sirens in the distance. Looking around he couldn't see anybody lying in wait for him, just a lot of dead bodies. It was time for him to get out of here. Getting caught would not be a positive experience for him, and he didn't think Kimura would post his bail.

Keeping a hold of his knife he picked up one of the handguns from where he had dropped it and started moving towards his exit point all be it slower than he liked. He slipped into another alleyway which would lead him to where he had left his _borrowed_ vehicle when once again he was suddenly flying forward, this time by a solid push to the middle of his back.

The sound of a gun being fired next to him had his ears ringing as he spun around to see his attacker, bringing his knife up as he went. He didn't like that he hadn't heard someone get that close to him, if he was making those kinds of mistakes then he might have to admit that he was more injured than he liked.

His knife was blocked by a firm grip to his wrist and suddenly he was staring into the same eyes of the man who had stopped him from picking his pocket.

"You," gasped Clint.

"Me," answered the man pointing his weapon past Clint and firing again. Clint pulled backwards out of the mans grasp only then to see two dead bodies on the ground. Bōsōzoku Clint had missed.

"Who are you?" asked Clint as he aimed his own gun at the guy who had apparently just saved his life. Not that that was any reason for Clint to trust this guy. Movement behind the mystery man had him looking further down the alley. Three more Bōsōzoku were coming towards him, shifting his aim slightly Clint took them all out with single shots to the chest. He didn't want to admit it, but his vision was starting to grey, so he'd aimed for larger targets than the heads of the approaching men. He quickly shifted his aim back to the mystery man who was no more than three feet in front of him.

"Someone who's very interested in why you have just taken out a mass assassination," said the man as he shifted his own aim of his weapon so it was pointed at Clint's chest. "Are you going to shoot me?"

"You're not my concern," shrugged Clint, letting his arms lower slightly.

"Really?" asked the suit guy raising an eyebrow in surprise.

"No, I..." Clint was cut off from saying anything more as several Bōsōzoku dropped down from the warehouse roofs. Clint let out a low growl in annoyance, these guys were like cockroaches. He thought he'd got them all only to find more creeping out of the woodwork.

The nearest one knocked the gun out of Clint's hand with a fast kick. Bringing up his knife in retaliation Clint slashed forward attempting to cut into the attacking man. Pushing past the pain that made the whole of his right side feel like it was on fire; he dodged, ducked and dived out of the way of his attacker. Coming up from a crouch he stabbed the man through the abdomen, giving a harsh twist as he pulled the knife out. The eyes of his attacker went wide before the body dropped to the floor. Clint never really liked the up close and personal kills, much preferred to take targets out from a distance.

His vision suddenly wavered making the world tilt and he found himself sliding down the nearest wall until he was sitting on the floor. All of his energy now gone, the grey spots in his field of vision having tuned to big black spots. He looked further down the alley to see the mystery man standing up to his full height and straightening his suit and tie. Four un-moving bodies lay crumpled around him.

"Looks like you could use some help," said the mystery man crouching in front of Clint.

"Not from you, I don't," breathed Clint. He knew he was in bad shape but he didn't know this guy. And some mystery man in a suit with mad skills offering him help sounded like it had an awfully big catch attached to it. "You need...to go," breathed Clint as he clenched his eyes closed. Not to far away he could hear car doors opening. But the sirens were still too far away which meant it wasn't the police that had arrived.

"Why?"

"'Cos 'm goin' home," smirked Clint as he opened his eyes and looked to the opening of the alley, where four men were moving towards them.

"Friends?" asked the suit guy.

"Owner," mumbled Clint as his eyes closed.

Four guns were suddenly aiming at the suit guy, standing up he turned and ran in the opposite direction. No shots were fired after him and his last view of the young man was of him being carried away to the awaiting vehicle.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** Thank you to all those who have read and especially those who have reviewed/alerted/faved this fic. I've decided that I won't be changing the title. After re-writing/editing/fleshing out and generally adding an extra thousand words to what this chapter started as, the title is actually quite fitting now. I'm just hoping I haven't made Coulson and Fury too OOC. (Though feel free to tell me) Enjoy!

Oh, and I had to kind of change the timeline slightly, but if you consider all the tech in the Avengers movie you could say that that particular film is based in the future. (That's if your that pinickity about things like that - I've only just stopped using my VCR so what do I know about technology?!)

-A-

"I hear you had a bit of a hitch," commented Director Nick Fury as he watched the goings on of the agents who were working on the bridge of the helicarrier, not bothering to look at one of his senior agents approaching him from behind.

"The mission was still completed," answered Agent Phil Coulson coming to stand next to him.

"But?"

"No buts," shrugged Coulson.

"Phil, I've known you a long time, what makes you think I won't know when you're lying to me?" smirked Fury as he now turned to look at the younger man.

Coulson smiled at that as he leant against the railing. "I ran into a young man while in Tokyo, twice actually."

Fury arched his only remaining eyebrow at Coulson, not seeing the significance.

"The first time he tried to pick my pocket, and the second time he was in the middle of conducting a mass assassination of the Bōsōzoku who were in the vicinity of our dead drop."

"You need to see medical?" asked Fury eyeing his agent more closely.

"No, according to him, I wasn't his concern."

"And this young assassin just let you go?" Fury didn't bother to hide his surprise.

"From the short conversation I had with the man it sounded like he was under contract. Though he used the term 'owner'.

"The kid had been shot when we parted ways, his last words to me was that he was going home. Four men picked him up from the alley, they weren't the police and from my brief look I could tell that they weren't Japanese. I've got Phelps looking into it."

"Why?" asked Fury in confusion. There were plenty of assassins in the world, some of them were already on SHIELD's watch list. But if Coulson hadn't recognised this man then he wasn't anybody of significance to SHIELD. Plus taking out a group of Bōsōzoku was not on the list of the worlds top ten world crimes. SHIELD had bigger fish to fry.

"This kid, and trust me that's all he was, he looked no older than twenty. He took down thirty-seven armed men, most with a single shot to the head. I have never seen a marksman with that degree of accuracy," explained Coulson in awe.

"Who shot him?" asked Fury. He had a funny feeling that he knew where Coulson was heading with this. Phil Coulson was one of the best when it came to hiding his emotions and projecting a blank look to the world. Except of course when he had a new project in his sights.

"One of the Bōsōzoku got a lucky shot in and hit him in the abdomen. But he carried on with barely a second of hesitation," described Coulson remembering the way the young man had taken out the guy that had shot him. "I could be wrong but I got the feeling that the kid didn't like his situation, and I'm not talking about the being shot part. Hell, that bit he didn't seem all that bothered about."

"You want to find him?" asked Fury, even though he was sure of the answer.

"I want to try," sighed Coulson. "I just think that whoever this kid is, he didn't choose the life he has."

"Very few people get to live the life they envisioned for themselves," countered Fury.

"He could be an asset to SHIELD," added Coulson.

"We already have shooters."

"True, but he has fighting skills. It didn't look like he had any formal training but he seemed to rely on instinct. He's agile though. He walks across rooftops as easily as you or I walk down the street. Not to mention he'll have insider knowledge on whomever he works for."

Fury sighed as he stood up straighter. "You do realise we have an official recruitment process, we can't keep taking in your strays."

Coulson smirked as he looked down at one of the analysts on the bridge, "You trusted me with Hill, and she's worked out fine. Not to mention Caleb and Phelps."

Fury let out an over-dramatic sigh in an attempt to hide his amusement at the younger man's barely contained glee. "Fine, same rules apply. He's your responsibility, he messes up and it's your ass in the firing line."

"Understood sir," said Coulson as he started walking away.

"Phil, do you even know the kids name?"

"Not yet, but I'm hoping Phelps can help me with that."

"How exactly do you plan on finding him then?"

"With my eyes, sir" laughed Coulson.

-A—

"Come in," called Coulson when a knock on his office door sounded. "You found something?" he asked as Agent Phelps walked into the office. Coulson indicated the younger man to have a seat in the chair in front of his desk.

"I did," answered Phelps sitting down. "The four guys that picked your mystery man up were Italian Mafia, specifically the American sector."

"What was the American section of the Mafia doing in Tokyo?"

"Rumour has it, picking up what was theirs," shrugged Phelps as he handed over a photograph to Coulson.

"The kid belongs to the Mafia?" asked Coulson remembering what the injured man had said about being owned. The photograph was of the young man in question. Captured from a CCTV camera. It was incredibly grainy.

"It's the best I could get, the guy just moved too fast for the outdated equipment in the area to get anything better."

"You couldn't clean it up at all?"

"That is the cleaned up version," scoffed Phelps.

"Do we know his name?" asked Coulson.

"Clint Barton," smirked Phelps. "I'm running it through our database, not to mention Interpol, CODIS, DMV, plus I've put the image into the facial recognition software."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, apparently Barton was on loan to a man named Kimura of the Tokyo Yakuza. The kid got hurt which negates the contract so he's now coming back to the US."

Coulson couldn't help but smile at Phelps. The young man had a talent for digging up information on subjects in exceedingly short amounts of time. Give him an hour, he's good, give him a day you could run a whole op with the only complication being the locations weather. Coulson had given up asking how Phelps did it, he never got a straight answer anyway.

"Thank you Phelps, keep me up dated on that search."

"Yes sir," smiled Phelps as he got up and left the office.

-A—

**Two months after Tokyo...**

"Sir, the reports from the Buenos Aires mission," said Coulson holding out the files for Fury.

"How'd she do?" asked Fury taking the file.

"Hill was fine. I wouldn't be surprised if she requests a transfer to become a full time field agent," smiled Coulson.

"Which was your plan all along?"

"I don't know what you're talking about sir," Coulson deadpanned.

"Of course you don't."

"Is there anything else I can do for you sir?" asked Coulson innocently.

"Any luck on your name search?"

"No," sighed Coulson in frustration. "There is no Clint Barton that matches the image we have from Tokyo in any system. But considering that might just be an alias we're running the photo through the facial recognition program without a name and so far that's come up with nothing either. Phelps is going as far as applying a program to Youtube. I think he's taking the fact that he can't find somebody as an insult to his own abilities."

"Youtube?"

"It's a video sharing website..."

"I know what it is," snapped Fury. "I also know that there are more than two hundred million videos on that site."

"Like I said, Phelps is starting to take this project personally," smiled Coulson.

"And you're not?"

"Not at this exact moment in time," shrugged Coulson.

"Alright, keep me informed."

-A—

**Five months after Tokyo...**

"I found him," grinned Phelps as he walked into Coulson's office without knocking. He came to a sudden halt when he came face to face with Director Fury. "Ah..."

"Agent Phelps, you ever heard of knocking?" asked Coulson from his seat behind his desk.

"Yes, sorry, I just..."

"You just what?" interrupted Coulson. The frown on the senior agent's face showed that whatever Phelps had interrupted had not been a pleasant conversation.

"I found him," stated Phelps trying to gain control over his nerves. In his two years at SHIELD, he'd never been this close to the director before. Being this close to him now only proved that all those stories you heard around the agency really were true, Director Fury was one scary guy. And the man hadn't even spoken yet, hadn't moved a muscle from where he was leaning against the wall. He just continued to look at Phelps with his one good eye, like he could see right through him.

"You found Barton?" asked Coulson bringing Phelps out of his own thoughts. His attention snapping back to Coulson and not the man who was probably one of the most powerful men in the world, that's if the stories really were true.

"Yeah," Phelps nodded. "The facial recognition program I applied to the web popped up with an image from six years ago." He held out a flash drive to Coulson.

Coulson took the drive without comment and loaded it onto his computer. Director Fury moved silently from his position against the wall to where he could also see the screen. A video file had opened up, the camera work was unsteady and the sound quality was appalling. But both Fury and Coulson could see what the focus of the video was.

A young man in a bright purple costume was using a bow and arrow to shoot moving targets inside of a circus big top tent. Before he was scooped off the ground by another performer where he started to throw knives at more targets while being thrown around by other performers. Phelps had watched the video a dozen times and he still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"You can't see his face," pointed out Fury.

"Not in this video sir, but I found six video's in total and one of them the performers mask slips off," informed Phelps as he handed the director a very clear photograph of a boy staring at the camera.

"This boy looks like he's fifteen," scoffed Fury in disbelief.

"The Amazing Hawkeye," sighed Coulson as he leant back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Phelps how sure are you about this?"

"Taking into account that I've had to use the FBI's missing child program to de-age our guy from Tokyo by six years and then match it to the circus performer, we get a ninety-two percent accuracy rate," Phelps answered confidently.

"Coulson, what are you thinking?" asked Fury.

"That I've seen these video's before," sighed Coulson.

"What? When?" asked Phelps, startled. He'd only just found them today.

"Three years ago," answered Coulson as he stood up and walked to one of his many filing cabinets lining the far wall of his office.

"You feel like filling in the rest of the class?" prodded Fury as he watched the younger man pull out a thick case file and bring it back to his desk.

"Three years ago we got wind of a new player, an assassin by the name of Hawkeye," explained Coulson.

"I remember," nodded Fury. A mission in Tanzania had been blown to kingdom come by SHIELDs own target, an arms trafficker by the name of Michael Dewji being eliminated before they had a chance to complete the job themselves. It left multiple undercover agents with no extraction point, fighting for survival as Dewji's organisation crumbled in the wake of his death. That incident had sent SHIELD on a worldwide manhunt for the mystery assassin. The only thing they had come up with was the name of the man who had hired him, and the only bit of information he could give SHIELD was that the assassin named Hawkeye never missed.

The trail went cold until six months later SHIELD heard rumours that Hawkeye was in Columbia and had taken out an entire drug cartel. By the time they got agents on the ground there was no trail to follow, he'd gone to ground again. A year went by before they heard of another rumour. But they still had nothing to work with; they didn't even know what this guy looked like. The only thing that stopped SHIELD putting him at the top of their most wanted list was that they'd never heard of him taking an innocent life. All his targets were usually on SHIELDs watch list already. So they kept an ear to the ground and filed as much information away as they could, or mainly Coulson did.

"You think this is him?" Fury asked.

"No, or I didn't. Not then."

Coulson opened the file and flipped through until he found what he was looking for. He handed a folded piece of paper to Fury. Taking it without question, Fury opened it to see an old weather worn poster advertising Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders The drawing in the middle was of an archer in a purple costume with the letters "The Amazing Hawkeye" scrawled underneath.

"Three years ago I ruled that this boy and the assassin couldn't be the same person. It was merely a coincidence that they shared the same name," Coulson said in his defence.

"Well you know what they say about coincidences?" smirked Fury.

"That they take a great deal of planning," answered Coulson with a small smile at the familiar quote. "I figured it was a very elaborate plan of the assassin. What better way to throw off suspicion and unwanted attention than to have the same name as a young boy who performs in a circus."

"You never found out the name of the boy?" asked Phelps in surprise.

"No, what I found was that a circus is like a government agency, lots of secrets and lots of people very good at keeping those secrets." Coulson laughed, though there was no evidence of any real humour involved. "Besides, when I started connecting the dots and learning more about the assassin Hawkeye, the way he kills, the fact that he never misses. I started to notice a pattern. But more alarmingly was the possibility that he's been active for a good four years prior to when we first noticed him.

"I know Russia and North Korea and possibly even China have their child assassin schools but I didn't believe a kid from an American circus who would have been in his early teens back then was our guy."

"And now?" asked Fury, seeing the self-doubt in Coulson. "What do you think now?"

"Now I'm thinking that if I did really meet the real Hawkeye I am incredibly lucky to be sitting in this office today having this kind of conversation."

Fury frowned at Coulson's comment as he placed the poster on the desk. "You realise what you have to do now?"

"What's that sir?"

"Connect the dots again; you have two names and a point of origin. It's more than you had an hour ago. Find me that assassin."

-A—

**Seven months after Tokyo...**

"You better be bringing me good news Coulson," growled Fury.

"About Sharif, no. Sitwell is in Tel Aviv as we speak and is coordinating the surveillance team. I do have news about Hawkeye though."

Fury's only response was the raising of his one remaining eyebrow. Coulson took that as permission to continue. Opening the file he had with him he passed Fury a clear and close up image of a young man.

"This is Clinton Francis Barton, AKA Hawkeye," said Coulson unable to keep the corners of his mouth curling up in a small smile. "He's twenty-two years old, born in Iowa but currently living in Baltimore."

"You're sure it's the same person? The kid from the circus and the assassin?"

"No doubt about it. Over the past three months Hawkeye has taken out seventeen targets, all within the US."

Fury snapped his head up to look at Coulson, "That's more kills than SHIELD has officially connected to him in three years."

"I know. The chatter about the 'world's greatest marksman' is in overdrive."

"He's gotten sloppy."

"Yes," agreed Coulson. "But his owner, as he put it, is also no longer keeping him hidden as well as he used to."

"You found out who's pulling the Hawks strings?"

"I did. One Antonio Moretti, head of the Baltimore Italian Mafia. The Moretti's are the most powerful family on the east coast, quite possibly the whole of America. It's no wonder we couldn't find any information on Hawkeye. Moretti probably has almost as many resources as SHIELD does."

"So what changed?"

"I'd say it was the Tokyo incident. From what I could learn Moretti hasn't rented out Barton's skill set since then. Instead he's kept him on home soil and kept him close."

"Why?"

"That I don't know. Maybe as a punishment. I'm starting to believe that Barton might have let himself get injured on purpose in Tokyo. He wanted to go home, his words."

"That's one hell of a risk," commented Fury.

"I still want to try and bring him in."

"Phil, he's not just a kid who chose the wrong path," sighed Fury in frustration. "He's a cold blooded killer.

"I don't think he is," protested Coulson. "If he was like Bullseye, Deadpool or even the Black Widow, he would have killed me back in Tokyo. But he didn't, instead he told me to leave."

"He's a killer with a body count in the triple digits," pointed out Fury.

"He is," agreed Coulson. "But he could also be an asset. He'll have insider information on the Mafia, the Yakuza, the Russian Mob and if my sources are right, half a dozen drug cartels, gun runners, human traffickers and... "

"Alright," interrupted Fury. "Bring him in."

-A-


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** This chapter is shorter than the last couple (apologies) but I needed it to end here ready for the next one. (Which is my favourite one that I've written so far) Enjoy!

-A-

Clint slouched in the hallway outside Moretti's office, he'd been waiting here for twenty minutes now. In the grand scheme of things that wasn't all that long. In the past Moretti had kept him waiting for five hours, then when he finally did call Clint into the office it was just to tell him that he was no longer required on the job in Chicago. Clint was in the office for a grand total of twenty seconds. It was a game, which Clint liked to think that he always won. If there was one thing Clint was good at, besides killing people it was being patient.

Matteo, one of Antonio's top enforcers opened the office door. He was the tallest and the broadest of all the enforcers Antonio had, one look could send a person crying for their mommy. Which Clint found fairly amusing seeing as Matteo was probably the least impulsive of all the enforcers. You annoy him and he was more likely to quote some philosophical shit at you rather than shoot you. That didn't mean he wasn't dangerous though. Given the right motivation he could snap a man's neck with one hand, he was just very calm about it. Matteo was probably the closest thing to a friend that Clint had here in Baltimore. It didn't mean that Clint trusted him but it usually set him more at ease knowing Matteo was there. It meant that he wasn't going to get the crap beaten out of him.

But seeing Matteo here now did nothing to comfort Clint. Which meant something wasn't right. Taking in the way Matteo was holding himself and not looking directly at Clint. It made him nervous.

Stepping past Matteo Clint entered the office and stood in front of the big desk where the head of the Moretti Mafia Family of Baltimore sat behind. Antonia Moretti was a big man, but even being in his early fifties everybody could see that it was all muscle and he did not look happy. Not that this was unusual, Clint could probably count on one hand when he'd seen Antonio look outwardly happy. But taking a quick glance around the big office, Clint's suspicions that something was definitely wrong peaked.

Antonio's right hand man and younger brother Giovanni sat in one of the chairs at the side of the room, next to him was his son Nico. If you wanted to know what was really going on all you had to do was watch Nico's facial expressions. He couldn't hide shit. Right now he looked happy, which meant there was a good chance that Clint was going to get his ass handed to him. Nico did not like Clint, never had done. Clint didn't know exactly why and he didn't much care. But the feeling was mutual.

Either side of the door Clint had just walked through were the brothers Luca and Marco, two of the most psychotic bastards Clint had ever had the unfortunate pleasure of being introduced too, which was saying a lot when you considered the circles that Clint had traveled in every since he'd ran away to the circus with his brother. Nice people were not on Clint's Christmas card list, not that he ever celebrated Christmas but the point was still valid. He didn't know any honest people and he didn't know anybody who looked after anybody but themselves. In his world it was every man for himself.

There were no windows in this office, so having these two blocking his only exit scared the shit out of him. Not that he outwardly showed it.

Then lastly, tucked in the corner was Flavia Moretti, Antonio's daughter and heir to the empire. Barely older than Clint himself she did all of their books. When it came to numbers, she knew it all. Clint had seen her remember a dozen different figures of the top of her head, do some sums and produce more figures all without paper or a calculator. She was scary in her own right, not to mention she was totally hot. Though he made sure not to be caught looking at her. The last person who was caught looking at Flavia Moretti had gone missing, only to turn up three weeks later in the harbour with his eyes missing. Message delivered and understood.

"You're late Barton," said Antonio drawing Clint's attention back to the most important man in the room.

"Sorry sir, I thought I was being followed," answered Clint looking down at the desk, not quite understanding how his time keeping was an issue when Moretti had still kept him waiting outside in the hall for so long. But then Moretti liked to prove that he was the one with all the power. "I looped the block a couple of times to make sure."

"Who would bother to follow you?" sneered Nico.

"Try anybody who doesn't like my line of work," growled Clint, glaring at Nico. "But you wouldn't know much about that, would you?"

He knew he'd made a mistake as soon as he opened his mouth. Nico might be stupid, but he was four inches taller than Clint and outweighed him by a good thirty pounds. So when the right hook came faster than Clint expected the oaf to move and connected with the left side of his head, Clint went down hard.

Lying on the floor, Clint blinked stars out of his vision as he slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. Only to be sent back down to the floor by a second hit to the head.

Clint tasted blood as his lip split. Ignoring how his head was pounding he jumped to his feet and caught Nico's fist as it was coming down for a third strike. He'd been waiting a long time to knock some sense into this bastard and now Nico had just given him the perfect excuse. Keeping a hold of Nico's fist he twisted his own body until he was standing behind Nico. Nico was now in a perfect arm lock as Clint pushed him forward, face first onto Moretti's desk.

Nico yelled in pain as Clint continued to put pressure on his shoulder and elbow joint, one more push and he could dislocate them both, maybe even do some permanent damage. The thought of which had Clint smiling slightly. However he didn't get the chance to do much of anything. He lost his grip on Nico as something hit him in the side of the head, once again sending him to the floor. Before he could fully comprehend what had happened another blow connected with the right side of his chest sending him sprawling across the room.

Hands were suddenly under his shoulders and pulling him to his feet. His vision waivered from the sudden movement and he found his knees giving out on him. The grip on his shoulders tightened to the point of being painful. It helped him focus; pushing past the pain and the nausea he was able to lock his knees and stand to his full height. He was pretty sure he now had a concussion, but as he glared across the room at Nico he'd be damned if he let anybody see him as being weak.

"If you boys are done," said Antonio in a rather bored manner. "We do have some business to attend to."

Blood started dripping down Clint's chin as he bowed his head. He knew better than to let any drip onto the carpet so he used the sleeve of his jumper to swipe it away. He looked up at whoever had a hold of him, only then realising that it was Matteo who had picked him up. If it wasn't for the headache that was making itself known, Clint liked to think that he would have realised this sooner. Nobody else in the room would have bothered to help him.

Stepping out of Matteo's grip he moved forward so he was standing in front of the desk again, Nico holding his right arm close to his body was led back to his seat by Luca. Clint wasn't surprised that it was Luca who had hit him. After the trip to New York last year, Luca had taken every chance possible to make Clint's life hell. Luca liked Nico no more than Clint did but by helping Nico out it gave Luca an excuse to cause Clint pain.

"Barton, how many of the 86th crew did you take out last week?" asked Antonio.

"Errr, six sir," answered Clint. "Just like you told me."

"Name them," ordered Antonio.

"Pablo and Hugo Acosta, Javier Vaga, Diego Rojas, Victor Mingo and Raul Lopez," said Clint as he pictured each of them in his mind. He'd done exactly as Antonio had instructed, down to the letter. Just as he always did. He didn't understand why Antonio was questioning him now, he never had before.

"And Joel Acosta?"

"No sir," answered Clint. "He wasn't on the list."

"Then tell me why he's fucking dead. Shot in the head just like the other six. Lying with the other six," yelled Antonio.

Clint opened his mouth to reply but no words came out. Antonio Moretti did not yell. He was calm and calculated, every detail of business was planned out. This sudden explosion of anger scared the shit out of Clint.

"The whole fucking point of leaving the youngest Acosta alive was it made good business. The bastard would have been easier to control than his brothers. Now we have some unknown fucker messing in my city, which is taking more time away from the real business. I thought you understood this?"

"Yes sir, I do sir," stammered Clint. A quick glance at Nico saw the bastard smirking again. Shit, he was going to be killed. For something he hadn't actually done, talk about ironic. He needed to try and salvage this, try and convince Moretti that he was worth keeping around.

"Then why did you kill him?" Antonio asked, his voice going back to being quiet, his focus all on Clint. Looking for the lie.

"I didn't sir," said Clint firmly. His eyes locking with Moretti. For the first time in years he actively tried to show the truth about what he was feeling. He'd been hiding for so long, building up walls against everybody for his entire life that being honest wasn't something that came naturally to him anymore.

"Then who did?"

"I don't know sir." Which Clint didn't. He'd gone to the warehouse that the 86th Crew operated out of. Spotted his six targets among the crowd and then taken them out in quick succession before anyone had a chance to spot him or fire back. He was then back out the window he had entered through and across the rooftops without being seen.

"Then fucking fix it," yelled Antonio. "Find the bastard and kill him."

"Yes sir," Clint nodded as he started backing out of the room. The sooner he left the better.

"You have twelve hours, Barton. It's not done by then, I don't care how useful you are, I'll kill you myself."

Clint's mouth had gone dry, as he stared in shock. Antonio had threatened him before when jobs didn't go according to plan or when his mouth got him into trouble. But he'd never been threatened with death, and he knew that there would be no quick shot to the head for him. The way Luca and Marco had just stood up slightly straighter proved that they were already fantasising about what they would do to him, because there was no doubt in his mind that Moretti would give Clint to the brothers first before finishing the job himself. Just like he said he would.

Matteo opened the door and practically pushed Clint out in to the hallway. "You better get running kid, you don't have a lot of time." Matteo propelled him through the hallway and out the front door. "Don't do anything too stupid, okay."

Clint didn't say anything in return he just started to run. He ignored the pounding in his head and ribs, he had a job to do, and he was damn well going to finish it. He might not like his life, taking orders and killing people who had pissed off the boss, but he certainly didn't want to die.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: **Thanks to everybody for reading/reviewing/alerting/favouriting - it means a lot knowing that there are people out there who like what I'm producing. Like I said in the last 'AN' this chapter is my favourite so far. So I really hope you all enjoy reading this one as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'm also adding an extra warning in for this chapter because of Clint's potty mouth! (If any of you think I should up the rating then please do let me know!)

-A-

Coulson sat in the only chair that Barton had in his apartment, which looked to be from somebody's dining room. In fact, unless you counted the single mattress on the floor in the corner, it was the only piece of furniture in the place. There was a duffle bag next to the mattress that had a few items of clothing spilling out of the top. From all of his own and Agent Phelps digging it appeared that Barton had been living in this apartment for the better part of two years yet he still appeared to be living out of a single bag. Coulson had seen spartan living, but this was beyond that.

The apartment was tiny but it was also bare. The front door opened into a single room with a small kitchenette to the right of the door and a bathroom to the left that was no bigger than a closet, there wasn't even a door separating the two spaces. The rest of the place was in no better condition. Paint was peeling off the walls and the floor boards were visible through multiple holes in the carpet.

Coulson had been waiting for the younger man to return home for nearly two hours now. He'd followed Barton to Moretti's home earlier in the day but had lost him when the kid had rushed back out of the house less than forty minutes later. Whatever had been said to the young man it couldn't have been good. It was then that Coulson had decided it was time to meet Barton.

Coulson stayed silent as he watched Barton enter the apartment. Even in the dim lighting that came from the streetlight outside Coulson could see the bruises covering the young man's face as he rested his forehead against the back of the door. He also noticed the high velocity spatter of dried blood on his jumper. Whatever Moretti had sent Barton to do, it had taken its toll on the younger man.

"Hello Barton." Coulson was impressed by how quick Barton pulled a gun from the back of his waistband and had it aimed at his head. Any hint of tiredness that Coulson might have seen when Barton had first walked into the apartment had now vanished.

"Who are you?" asked Clint. "How'd you get in here?"

"I used the door," shrugged Coulson. "It wasn't hard to pick the lock. I would have thought that a man like you would have higher security."

"Well maybe other people aren't as stupid as you to break into my place," growled Clint. "Now who the fuck are you?"

"My name is Phil Coulson, we met in Tokyo six months ago."

Recognition suddenly came to Clint. This was the mystery suit guy from the alley, the one Clint refused to admit had saved his life. On closer look Clint thought he might even be wearing the same suit.

"How'd you find me?" asked Clint still holding his gun firmly in place.

"I looked," stated Coulson.

"No shit, now what do you want?" Clint growled, he was starting to get annoyed. This man, whoever he was had come into his home and gone through his things. He'd spotted that all of his weapons that he had strategically stashed around the place were now piled next to the chair this guy was sat in.

"To talk, preferably without a gun pointing at my head," said Coulson calmly.

"Tough, I like having my gun out and I don't want to talk. I want you to leave."

Coulson shrugged, he wasn't about to leave just yet. "I see you made it home, was it Moretti's men who picked you up from that alley in Tokyo?" He knew the answer but he wanted to see what Barton would say.

"Yes," Clint answered warily.

"Did you get shot on purpose? I know it would have negated your contract."

"What?" asked Clint in surprise. "No, I didn't get shot on purpose. You ever been shot? It fucking hurts. Now...wait, how in the hell do you know about the contract?"

"I know a lot of things, Barton," said Coulson as he continued to stare down the gun Barton was still pointing at him. He was impressed that even after this amount of time he wasn't wavering. His aim was as steady as it was when he first pulled the gun out. "I want to offer you a job."

"I have a job," pointed out Clint. He was getting more and more annoyed at this guy. Nobody was that calm when they had a gun pointed at them for this long. Yet this guy just continued to sit there. No twitching, no fidgeting. The only thing that he moved was his mouth.

"Yes, killing street thugs for the Mafia. How's that going for you?" asked Coulson pointing to the blood stains on Barton's jumper.

Clint gritted his teeth, he'd just come from popping the idiot who had killed Joel Acosta. Having not known what the guy had looked like he couldn't just snipe the guy. Instead he'd walked in the front door and asked the first person he'd come across, then the second, then the third.

The third guy had finally caught on to the fact that if he gave Clint what he wanted then he got to live. He'd pointed right to the fucker, one Enrique Hernandez.

_"Did you shoot Joel Acosta?"_ C_lint asked though he already knew the answer. _

_"Don't know what ya talking 'bout mate," laughed Hernandez._

_Clint smirked which made the smile Hernandez wore falter slightly. "Trust me, I do. What your failed to comprehend was that the Acosta's worked for Mr Moretti. He doesn't approve of your leadership." Clint pulled out his gun from the back of his waistband and shot Hernandez in the shoulder._

_Clint was suddenly surrounded by the rest of the 86th crew, all of whom had their guns pointed at him. He wasn't too concerned though. This crew had a pack mentality; he'd seen it in the dogs the circus had kept. All he had to do was shoot the alpha the rest would fall._

_"You fuck! You fuck!" screamed Hernandez as he tried to apply pressure to the wound._

_"You made your biggest and last mistake," said Clint calmly._

_"You're dead," spat Hernandez. "You hear me, dead!"_

_"I hear you, but I'll be walking out of here. Ask yourself this, who in their right mind would walk into a building surrounded by enemy guns?" smirked Clint. "Think very carefully, you only get one answer."_

_"Hawkeye," gasped Hernandez._ _Fear now evident in his eyes._

_"Bingo," Clint shot him in the throat. Blood spurted from the wound spraying Clint across the chest and face. Eight months ago Clint would have shot him in the head, made it quick. Now he just didn't care. He watched as Hernandez drowned in his own blood. He gasped and clawed at his own throat for nearly fifteen seconds before he went limp as death claimed him. All the guns that were pointing at him just a moment ago were now lowered and their owners had taken several steps away from him. Hernandez might have barely spoke his name, but the word had carried. _

_Everybody had heard and everybody knew the stories. Moretti made sure that people heard the stories._ _Clint made sure that people had heard the stories. _

_"Mr Moretti will be in touch," Clint said quietly as he turned and left the warehouse. He walked to the nearest payphone where he called Antonio's direct line._

_"Yes?"_

_"It's done," Clint said as he used his sleeve to wipe Hernandez's drying blood from his face._

_"It has only been three hours."_

_"I had a good incentive to get the job done." Clint had to hold back the snarl in his voice. Being threatened with a painful death was a very good incentive to work quickly._

_Antonio hung up without saying anything else, which didn't surprise Clint. Four years he'd been working for Moretti and not once had the man said 'good job' or anything remotely close to that. Putting the phone back on the hook Clint headed home, keeping to the back alleys and rooftops._

To find this man here. All Clint wanted was a hot shower and to go to bed, not deal with this man and all his questions.

"Barton, I don't know how you went from being a circus act to a hit man, but I'm betting it wasn't a choice," said Coulson quietly.

"You don't know shit!" spat Clint his anger getting the better of him.

"Really? I know you were born in Iowa, I know you were the _'Amazing Hawkeye'_ at Carson's Carnival until four years ago when you left and became an assassin. I know that you are careful and never left a trace. Except in the last six months it's almost like you were advertising that you were here," explained Coulson. "So why don't you tell me what changed?"

"Why should I? I don't know you; I don't want to know you." Clint lowered his gun slightly. It was becoming painfully obvious that this guy had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

"Because I'm offering you a chance at a better life, to be one of the good guys."

Clint laughed, "I'm not a good guy."

"I don't believe you're one of the bad guys either," sighed Coulson. "If you were, I wouldn't be here. This is your second chance. A chance to make something of yourself, to do some good, to be a part of something..."

"Oh god, if you bring out a brochure I think I'm going to vomit," interrupted Clint.

"No brochure," smiled Coulson. "I work for an independent sector of the government."

"You shit," growled Clint as he aimed his weapon again. He'd had bad experiences with government types before. They brought nothing but trouble. Trouble, Clint liked to avoid.

"I'm not here to arrest you, like I said I'm here to offer you a job." Coulson held his hands up in the universal sign for surrender and leaned back in the chair. Trying to make himself as least threatening as possible.

"Why should I believe anything you say?"

"Faith," shrugged Coulson.

Clint scoffed, "I lost that a long time ago, try again."

"Barton, you have a body count higher than most military snipers, hell it's higher than most terrorists. Not to mention your accuracy rate from the little I've seen is higher than anybody's has the right to be. You have skills which can be put to good use."

"Great, instead of being classified as a murderer I'll be a government sanctioned hit man," mocked Clint. "Other than where my pay check comes from I don't see a lot of differences to what I have right now."

"You'll have security, somewhere to call home. People you can trust. Not to mention a proper bed." Coulson's eyes flicked towards the mattress and the pile of blankets that was on top.

"Wow, do I even get dental," smirked Clint in amusement.

"SHIELD does have an excellent dental plan," smiled Coulson.

"SHIELD?"

"It stands for Strategic Home..."

"I know what it stands for," interrupted Clint. "It's a freaking myth. The bogeyman of the criminal underworld. You expect me to believe that crap?"

"I can as..."

"Shut up," snapped Clint as he raised the gun again and took a step forward. "Did Matteo put you up to this? No, I bet it was Nico. Well you can tell him to go fuck himself or maybe I'll just blow your fucking head off and leave it as that. Message delivered and under-fucking-stood."

Coulson raised an eyebrow in surprise at the younger man's outburst. For the first time since Barton had pointed his gun at him, it was only now that Coulson felt imminently under threat. He watched as Barton's eyes lost all life to them and went cold. The sternness in them was scary, especially in a person so young.

"No joke, no myth," said Coulson calmly. Before Clint could react, Coulson leaped out of the chair took a hold of the gun by the barrel and twisted his hand so he disassembled the weapon at the same time as he pushed the younger man backwards by thrusting the palm of his hand into the middle of Clint's sternum.

Clint gasped as he doubled forward from the hit. His hands clutched to his own chest as he struggled for breath and tried to take in the much needed oxygen. Coulson ignored Clint for the moment as he finished disassembling the gun he'd just taken and tossed the separate pieces into the existing pile of weapons he'd accumulated earlier.

"I really don't like guns being pointed at me," stated Coulson as he crouched down in front of the still gasping Clint Barton, who was now lying on the floor. Coulson took out a small business card and placed it in Clint's jeans front pocket. "In case you change your mind."

Coulson stood up and let himself out of Barton's apartment, leaving him still gasping for breath on the floor. He'd be okay in a few minutes.

-A-

It was later that night when Clint pulled out the business card. It was plain white and had no symbols or names written on it. Just a phone number printed in black.

"Well that's not ominous at all," muttered Clint to himself. He went over in his mind what had happened earlier. That guy Coulson, he could have killed him. But he didn't, why?

He rubbed the bruises that were forming on his sternum. That hit alone could have done some serious damage, but it had only bruised. It told him that this guy Coulson was trained. Military if he had to guess. Which just gave him more questions, not answers. Should he call him? Get out from under Moretti? He had to admit that he'd been looking for an escape route for years.

But there was no saying that the grass would be greener on the other side. There was always a catch.

Of course Clint had no proof that this guy Coulson was who he said he was. Anybody could put on a suit and pretend to be a fed. Hell, he'd done it himself once. Clint smiled to himself as he remembered that job. It wasn't all bad working for Moretti.

Sliding the card back into his pocket, he wasn't going to make any rash decisions. Sometimes it was just better to stick with what you know.

-A-


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **Firstly, I apologise for the delay in uploading this next chapter. That thing called '_real life_' got in the way. (I will be having words with _it _for its inexcusable behavior!) Secondly, I hope this chapter then lives up to all the high expectations out there. Your reviews and PM's have been amazing, they always brighten my day.

-A-

_"It's been four days Coulson, I think it's time you accepted that the boy can't see a good deal when it's shoved in his face," said Fury over the comm. link._

"Sir, I don't think that it's about not wanting to leave Moretti, more that he's scared of the consequences. That and he doesn't know how to trust. Everything that I've leant about Clinton Barton is that he gets a good thing and it turns bad on him. His parents died, he ran from the orphanage, he ran from the circus. Somehow fell in with Moretti who then went to loaning him out to the highest bidder. He has no reason to trust me," stated Coulson.

_"You still think you can change that?"_

"I have an idea," said Coulson.

_"Should I be worried?"_

"No, I just need you to approve Phelps and Greer to come join me in Baltimore, Delancey too."

"_Coulson?"_

"You send those three; all five of us will be back on base within five days." Coulson held his breath while Fury considered his request. He knew it was a risk, four agents to go collect one man who had turned down SHIELD's help not once but twice. But then third time was always a charm, or so he was told.

_"Alright, you have a go. But I want a full report when you get back."_

"Thank you Sir."

_"Don't thank me," said Fury hanging up._

Twelve hours later and Coulson was leaning against the side of his SUV as he watched a SHIELD jet land. The ramp lowered and out stepped Agent Phelps, smiling as always and almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. Followed by Agent Greer, leader of Red Team, one of the top strike teams SHIELD had. Greer was currently pulling a pair of Aviator shades on as he focused on Coulson. Then finally Agent Delancey, a big black man with a buzz cut. Most men went running scared when they saw Delancey coming, even before he drew a weapon. It was quite a show to watch. Delancey was adjusting his ever present black baseball cap before he picked up two duffle bags in one hand and followed the other men to the SUV.

"Coulson," greeted Greer as the two men shook hands. "Fury tells us we're on a recruitment drive."

"Something like that," smirked Coulson.

"Am I gonna get shot? I always get shot with you. Remember Kandahar? I do! I've still got the scars."

"Stop your bitching Greer," boomed Delancey as he smacked Greer on the back with enough force to make the smaller man stagger forward. "We're off base, I owe you one Phil."

"I'd thought you'd like a small reprieve from training the new recruits," nodded Coulson as he shook the big man's hand.

"Yeah, remind me not piss off Fury again," laughed Delancey.

"You blew up a jet, what did you think was gonna happen?" grouched Greer as he started to stow their gear in the trunk.

"It was only a Cessna," shrugged Phelps, failing miserably to hide a smile.

"Exactly," laughed Delancey. "I'd understand if it was a Quin Jet."

"It was Fury's Cessna," pointed out Greer. "You're lucky Fury didn't throw you in a hole and leave you to rot. Or worse he could have sent you to Alaska."

"How is going to Alaska worse?" asked Phelps in confusion.

The three more experienced agents all looked at Phelps like he was mad not to know the reason why Alaska was worse.

"Let's get to the safe house, I'll explain the situation on the way," said Coulson moving towards the driver's seat.

"What's wrong with Alaska?" asked Phelps again. "I have family in Alaska."

-A-

"Coulson, this has got to be one of your craziest plans yet," stated Greer as he pushed the surveillance photo's around. Each one was of a different angle of their target, Clinton Barton. Some were of Moretti's men standing outside of Moretti's house or Moretti's men positioned down the street.

"I've been watching Barton for the better half of a week. He has no discernible patterns, he doesn't own a car, he doesn't use public transport and for the most part he doesn't even walk down the streets, opting for rooftops and his skills in parkour," explained Coulson as he pointed to a photograph of Barton on top of a roof.

"But three plans, Coulson? That's a little excessive even for you."

"I could give you a forth if you would prefer?" smirked Coulson.

"I think I'll pass," sighed Greer pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm still getting my head around plan three and the fact that you want to use a flame thrower."

"One plan for each circumstance," explained Coulson. "We go tomorrow, if a particular situation presents itself then we have an already outlined plan."

"All for a kid, who doesn't want to join," pointed out Delancey in disbelief. "It's a hell of a risk."

"If we don't pick him up now; he'll be dead within a year. We cannot afford to lose talent that this kid has to offer," pointed out Coulson, hoping to convince the other agents that he was right. That all this effort was worth it. That Barton was worth it.

"Phil, I was there when you recruited Phelps, and I thought you were mad then. Sorry kid," said Delancey. Phelps only shrugged in response. "But this isn't just another kid who made some bad choices. He behaves like a born operative, he's had no formal training and yet we can retro-actively trace him back to hits in at least five different countries and you want him to defect to our side? Phil, we take him back to a base and we will be taking away all of his choices. He turns us down again and Fury will put a kill order on him."

"I know," sighed Coulson. "But this kid has potential."

"He is pretty amazing," added Phelps remembering Tokyo. "Single-handedly took out thirty-seven Japanese bikers and what my sources say he took out a Russian General in his own home. Escaped a Korean prison pit and..."

"Alright," interrupted Delancey, knowing when he was beat.

"Greer, you in?" asked Coulson.

"Of course I'm bloody in. But if he tries to shoot me, I will shoot first."

-A-

Coulson and Greer stood on the roof of a four story building three streets over from Moretti's house. "You know when I told you I had a forth plan," said Coulson as he looked through the binoculars focusing on the front door to the house that Antonio Moretti did all of his business out of. Their target one Clinton Barton had come out and was getting into the back seat of the car parked out front.

"Yeah?" asked Greer not sounding very certain.

"We're going to use plan four," said Coulson standing up and climbing down the the fire escape as fast as he could.

_"What's plan four?"_ asked Delancey over the comm. link.

"There's going to be a black Escalade coming towards you, run it off the road," ordered Coulson.

"_What! Are you crazy?"_

"Target is in the back seat, run the damn car off the road." Coulson was back on street level running down the alley towards Phelps who was in the drivers seat of the van, Greer close behind him.

"Coulson, we need more than just run him off the road," pointed out Greer.

"Head towards Delancey," Coulson ordered Phelps getting into the back of the van. Phelps didn't argue as he put the van in gear. Pulling out just as Greer got the door closed.

"Coulson?" asked Greer again. "What's the rest of the plan?"

"Kidnapping with witnesses," stated Coulson like it was obvious as he held out an assault rifle to Greer.

_"I'm behind the Escalade,"_ said Delancey.

"I have you in sight," replied Phelps. Both the Escalade and the truck that Delancey was driving were coming towards them.

"Do it now," ordered Coulson as he flicked the safety off his own rifle.

Delancey pressed his foot down on the gas pedal and sped up to catch up to the target vehicle. Pulling up alongside the car he gave a tight tug of the steering wheel to the right, pushing the back end of the car into the curb. The speed of the two vehicles caused the target car to bounce up onto the curb, the front end hitting a lamppost and coming to a very sudden stop.

Smoke was issuing from under the hood of the Escalade as Delancey jumped out of the truck, his weapon in hand. Moving to the front of the car, he could see the target pushing himself up so he was sitting again, blood running from a cut to his forehead. Ignoring him for the moment Delancey kept walking so he could see the driver and front passenger, both were unconscious, the driver possibly dead.

The screech of tires alerted him to the arrival of Phelps driving the van. Pulling up alongside the car, Coulson and Greer jumped out the back. They both moved towards the rear passenger side door, the target was still conscious but dazed. Greer yanked open the back door and pulled the target out. The kid immediately began to struggle, causing Coulson to have to reach down and take a hold of Barton's free arm which only made the kid start to use his feet. Kicking out at the two agents he began to twist his body making Greer and Coulson get closer together and compromising their own line of fire.

"Fuck this," growled Greer dropping his hold on Barton and using the butt of his rifle he hit the target on the back at the base of his neck. The target promptly collapsed into Coulson's arms unconscious.

"Was that necessary? He wasn't going to shoot you," frowned Coulson.

"Yeah, well he was thinking about it," said Greer pulling out a Glock from the back of the kid's waistband.

Before Coulson could say anything else bullets started hitting the tarmac around them. Looking down the street to the direction the Escalade had come from. Coulson recognised several of Moretti's men coming towards them at a quick pace, all of them holding automatic weapons of some kind. They were still on Moretti's turf so he wasn't surprised that the crash had been discovered so quickly.

"Entrar en la furgoneta," yelled Coulson as he started return fire. DeLancey knelt and picked up Barton, throwing him over his shoulder in a fireman carry. With Coulson and Greer covering him he ran for the van that Phelps still had running.

"Somos los dueños del halcón ahora," Coulson shouted between shots. With Greer ahead of him they both jumped in the back of the van, getting the door closed just bullets impacted into the metal. Phelps stamped down on the gas pedal and accelerated away from the shooters.

"We own the hawk now. Seriously?" asked Greer in disbelief. "That's your big plan, just yell some shit in Spanish and hope one of them understands."

"They do, plus I've got a trail leading from here to Columbia."

"Do you now? So you going to continue to tell me that this was plan four and you didn't plan on doing this from the offset but you knew we'd all say no, because that was bat shit crazy!"

Coulson arched an eyebrow at Greer's outburst. "There's an airstrip twenty miles from here, we'll board a plane with the flight plan going to Columbia which has us landing mid way between two of the major cartels down there. If Moretti wishes to follow up on his acquisition then that's where it'll lead. He'll either start a war or find out that he's been had. If it's the second option then it'll be too late, and he'll know that he'll never find Barton. It'll be bad business to keep looking for just one man."

"I'm assuming that we're not going to Columbia?" asked Delancey.

"No, we'll land in Haiti, where a SHIELD jet that is picking up another team will take us back to the New York Base."

"Because the Columbians happen to use Haiti as a trading port it'll be natural for a plane from Baltimore to stop there on the way to Columbia," laughed Delancey.

"Exactly," smirked Coulson as he started to check on Barton.

"Sometimes it's scary how your mind works," sighed Greer.

-A-

**AN:** If the Spanish is incorrect it's because I used Google translator. Sorry.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: **This is going to sound so very random but I was wondering if anyone from the USA could tell me if you get Skittles (the sweets/candy not the game) in America?

Anyway, This is the longest chapter I've wrote for this storey and I must say that it's replaced chapter six as my favourite. It's also been one of the more challenging chapters to write. Here's hoping I pulled it off. Enjoy!

-A-

Clint woke up slowly; blinking away the fog that he recognised from past experience that was caused by a drug induced sleep. He tried to remember what had happened to cause him to be sedated, but all he could come up with was the vague memory of a truck coming straight for the car he was riding in the back off, followed by hands grabbing him. Then nothing.

Pushing himself up into a sitting position his movement was stopped by his right wrist that was handcuffed to the bed rail. He was lying on what appeared to be a standard hospital bed. But this was no hospital. Hospitals were noisy, no matter what time of day it was, there were always people about. Whether they be doctors, nurses, patients or visitors. There was also a constant hum of background noise in hospitals caused by computers and medical equipment. Clint couldn't hear any of that. Plus he was still in his jeans and blood stained t-shirt. If this really were a hospital he'd be in one of those one-size fits nobody gowns that gape at the back and remove any ounce of dignity you thought you might still have.

Frowning at this new development he took the opportunity to look at the rest of the room. There was nothing in it, just him and the bed he was sitting on. The walls, floor and ceiling were all the same off white colour, which gave him no indication as to where he might be. There wasn't even a window for him to see out of.

Looking himself over Clint couldn't find any obvious wound to determine where the blood on his t-shirt had come from, and he didn't remember getting hurt. He was missing his boots and his belt though. Deciding that he really didn't want to hang around and find out who had abducted him, because it never turned out well for the abductee. He reached into his back pocket of his jeans for his lock picking kit, swearing when he found that they weren't there.

So they'd searched him, whoever '_they_' were. Undeterred Clint ran his left hand down the seam of the front pocket on his jeans. Smiling when he found the familiar pull in the fabric he picked at it until he had enough thread to grip tightly to gave one last big pull. As the thread unraveled a thin piece of wire dropped into his lap. Bending it into the required shape he inserted it into the lock, less than thirty seconds later Clint was leaping off the bed.

He stumbled slightly as he landed, his vision swimming in and out of focus. _Damn_, he really hated drugs. Putting his hand to his forehead, he winced when the contact caused him pain. Gently he ran his fingers over his forehead, tracing the outline of a bandage. Mystery solved of who's dried blood was on his t-shirt, with it came the memory of him hitting his head on the corner of the drivers seat he was sitting behind. Taking some deep breaths to steady himself he stood up straighter and headed for the door.

Which he found was locked. However there was no key hole. There was however a small black box to the right of the door that had a little red light glowing in the top corner. Frowning at it, Clint recognised it as a magnetic lock. The only way he was going to be able to unlock this door today was with an ID card to hold up against it. The chip in the card would be read by the box, which would then unlock the door. Clint really hated technology at times, why couldn't people just stick to good old metal keys that needed key holes to work. Without the proper equipment to hack into the system or a really powerful magnet there was no way he was getting out of this room through the door.

Turning his back on the door he took a closer look at the room, there had to be another way out of here. He just had to find it. Looking up he spotted a vent positioned in the ceiling at the center of the room. Smiling to himself Clint moved back towards the bed, nobody ever bothered to look up. Kicking the breaks off he wheeled it across the room and positioned it under the vent cover. Then using the handy little button on the bed controls he lifted the bed to its highest position before jumping back onto it and standing up. The vent was small, it'd be a tight squeeze once he was inside, and there was no telling if the vent would get any narrower. He could get stuck. The alternative however was staying in this room and waiting for whoever was holding him to come back.

Examining the vent cover more closely he couldn't feel any air being blown out. That gave him a little bit more hope that when he actually got into the vent he wouldn't be obstructed by moving parts, such as fast moving fan blades. He still had the scars from the last vent he had to crawl through, he'd rather not repeat the process.

The vent cover itself was screwed in place by four screws, one in each corner. Using the same wire which he'd used to pick the cuffs with, he reshaped it by bending it in half and then in half again so the wire was now shorter in length but wider across, perfect for fitting into the cross shaped grooves on the top of the screw. Turning the wire like a make-shift screwdriver, he was able to manipulate the screws out of the wall.

He was on the third screw when the door to the room clicked and opened.

"Very resourceful," said a familiar voice walking into the room and closing the door behind him.

"You," snapped Clint as he spun around to face the guy who'd left him gasping for breath in his own apartment. "Coulson, right?"

"Nice to see you again, Barton," smiled Coulson.

"You kidnapped me?" asked Clint in confusion. Though now that he thought about it, this whole situation was starting to make sense.

"I wouldn't call it kidnapping," shrugged Coulson.

"Really? So what do you call taking me from my home and bringing me here? Wherever here is?"

"Rescue, rehabilitation, second chance. Take your pick."

"I didn't need rescuing. I was doing just fine on my own," scowled Clint.

Coulson arched one eyebrow in disagreement.

"Moretti is so gonna kill me," muttered Clint. "Though he may kill you first, he might even let me watch. I'll call it my last request."

"Moretti won't find you," stated Coulson like it was a matter of fact.

"You don't know Moretti like I do," scoffed Clint folding his arms across his chest.

"Well for starters, he thinks you've been taken by the Columbians."

"Why on earth would Moretti think that?" asked Clint in disbelief.

"Because I staged it that way."

"You're insane, you know that," Clint stated. Coulson only shrugged. "So where am I then?"

"SHIELD base," answered Coulson not giving him any more information than necessary.

"You're kidding? You're still going with that?" Clint was rolling his eyes now. No government organisation could keep themselves that secret. It had to be a construct to keep the bad guys of the world on their toes. Besides some of the stories he'd heard were too outlandish to be anything but fictitious.

"It's no joke. Everything I told you was true. We're an independent sector of the government tasked to protecting our country and the rest of the known world, and there's a job opening for you."

Clint laughed, "I told you before; I don't want to work for the government."

"That was before you were free of Moretti," pointed out Coulson.

"And thanks to you I'm now free," grinned Clint spreading his arms wide. "Why would I tie myself to another master who would be giving me orders no better than Moretti?"

Coulson sighed, this kid was really starting to grate on his nerves. Why couldn't he see a good thing when it was offered to him? "Barton I'm trying to help you. If you go back out into the world on your own, you're just going to end up dead, most likely sooner rather than later. SHIELD can offer you security, a home. We look after our own, we protect each other. No more looking over your shoulder or sleeping with one eye open. Plus as you can verify by what you're still standing on, we have beds."

Clint continued to stare down at Coulson, he didn't understand. Nobody offered you things without wanting something in return. It wasn't the way the world worked. Where was the catch? And what was with this guy's obsession with pointing out that there were beds here. Clint happened to like his mattress on the floor. A frame just took up more space.

"Come with me," said Coulson turning towards the door.

"Where too?"

Coulson only smiled as he exited the room, leaving the door open. It was an invitation and Clint knew it, but the alternative was staying here. Not that he wanted to admit it but he was quite curious. Nobody had ever tried this hard to recruit him before. In the past he was the one always trying to prove his worth.

Pocketing the wire and the two screws that he had removed from the vent Clint climbed down off the bed and followed the ever growing mystery that was Coulson into the hallway. The most random of thoughts popped into Clint's head. Did this guy have only one suit he wore over and over again or did he have a closet full of them? Maybe he'd consider asking him at some point, after he'd figured out the end game.

"Do I get my shoes back?" Clint called to Coulson who hadn't stopped walking.

"They're by the door, catch up."

Clint looked down to see his boots along with his belt on the floor. Picking them up he found his lock picks inside the left boot. Stuffing his picks into his back pocket he slipped his boots on and ran to catch up with Coulson.

"You gonna tell me where we're going?" asked Clint as he slipped his belt on.

"Tie your laces before you trip," ordered Coulson coming to a stop. Rolling his eyes Clint did as he was told.

Coulson started to walk down the hallway again, Clint falling into step slightly behind him once his laces were done up. They walked in silence, Clint taking in his surroundings trying to map out their route in case he needed an exit strategy later. So far all the corridors looked the same, lots of closed doors and zero windows. What kind of building had no windows?

After several minutes of walking Coulson stopped at one door and pressed an ID card he'd pulled from the inside of his jacket pocket against a little black box identical to the one that Clint had seen back in the first room. The light went green and Coulson held the door open indicating for Clint to pass through.

Warily Clint stepped through the open doorway and came to a sudden stop. His bottom jaw dropped open in shock as he tried to take in everything he was seeing.

He was standing on a catwalk that looked down on what he could only describe as some sort of hanger. There were different types of aircraft's positioned everywhere he looked. People were walking in and around them. Some were driving Jeeps, there was even a crane at the far end. This was the biggest building he had ever been in.

But what ended up grabbing his attention the most was a massive logo of a black eagle with the words Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division painted on the far wall.

"Ah shit," muttered Clint as he lent forward and rested his forearms on the metal railing in front of him. Still in shock, multiple scenarios started running through his head on what this meant. If this guy wasn't kidding about SHIELD maybe he wasn't kidding about that job offer.

Clint's eyes drifted over the floor far below, unconsciously he started to track the different people moving through the room. All of them were wearing similar uniforms. Most were in blue coveralls, some were in what looked like black tactical gear. There was even a few people in suits that matched Coulson's.

"We do a variety of work Barton. It's not all about the killing as you put it. We collect and evaluate Intel. We protect individuals and we protect nations. We don't discriminate and we operate all over the world," said Coulson moving to stand next to Clint.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because I want you to understand what you'd be agreeing to or what you would be turning down, whichever way you choose," explained Coulson. "Everybody has a choice, when people are approached by SHIELD they can say no. You're no different."

"I'm betting most people don't get the guided tour before they sign on the dotted line," pointed out Clint.

"You'd be the only one," said Coulson. "You seem to require more convincing than most."

"So I don't really have a choice at all then," frowned Clint. "I've seen your secret clubhouse." Here was that ever present catch that came with all so called opportunities. Join their club, or die. He doubted they'd just let him walk away. Not if all the stories were true about this SHIELD group. Of course this could still be a really really elaborate scam, but then he couldn't figure out what the end game for that scenario would be.

"You will always have a choice Barton. Now follow me." Coulson started walking away from him again. Not seeing another option Clint did just that.

-A-

The pair walked through many corridors, Clint tried to keep his mental map of the place going but whatever building this was it was just too big. Not even the numbers printed on the doors helped him out. Though Clint did notice when they went in a big circle on one level, wherever Coulson was leading him they were definitely taking the long way around. All the time they passed lots of people in various uniforms, just like in the hanger. Some people said hello to Coulson, others merely nodded to him. Coulson though replied to each greeting with a name. This guy knew everybody. Then when he wasn't saying hi to people he was pointing things out in different rooms that had the door open and explaining more about the various things that SHIELD did. Clint felt like he was on one of those guided tours at the museum that tourists went on. What was the point of all this?

Finally they ended up in a canteen. "Sit there and don't move. I'd hate to have to shoot you after going through all this effort," ordered Coulson before turning and heading towards the food counter.

Clint moved one of the chairs so that his back was flush with the wall. From this angle he could see both doors into the room as well as the kitchen through the hatch behind the food counter. He counted all the people currently in the room, though he had no idea what time it was, apparently SHIELD didn't believe in clocks. He noticed that half of the people in the room were armed, some concealed their weapons at the back of their waistbands, underneath their jackets, including Coulson. Others like the one guy in the far corner had a sidearm holstered to their thigh. There was something about the guy in the corner that drew Clint's attention. By the way other people shuffled past the guy, not looking at him and quickening their pace told Clint that this man was someone of importance. Someone who scared the shit out of everybody else.

"So what do you think?" asked Coulson startling Clint out of his thoughts as he set a tray of food in front of him along with a can of soda.

"I'm thinking that I'm glad I don't pay taxes if this is where it's all going to," said Clint trying to cover that he'd been caught off guard. Ignoring the food Clint picked up the can and turned it around in his hands. Not seeing any signs of tampering he opened the can and took a big gulp of the fizzy liquid.

"We have an alternative source of revenue," explained Coulson. Trying to hide his smile he took a sip from the coffee mug he had brought with him to the table. "The food isn't poisoned," sighed Coulson as he reached over the table and picked up three of the fries from the plate in front of Clint. Stuffing them in his mouth he chewed and swallowed them down.

"That doesn't prove anything," pointed out Clint.

"Don't be so over dramatic. I know you must be hungry. You haven't eaten anything in at least fifteen hours."

Clint only raised an eyebrow at that, so that's how long he had been sedated for. Of course that still didn't give him any clue as to where he was. They could have crossed time zones in that period. Taking a chance though he picked up one of the packets of ketchup from the tray, ripped the corner open and squeezed the sauce on the fries. He had to admit, though only to himself that he was hungry. If he really had been sedated for fifteen hours it was more likely twenty-four to thirty hours when he had eaten his last meal. Not unusual for him, sometimes eating just wasn't at the top of his priority list. He'd learnt a long time ago which foods were best to eat so that you could go longer between meals.

Coulson watched him eat for a few minutes before asking his next question. "What I meant before is what do you think about joining SHIELD and becoming an agent?"

Clint stopped eating and sat up straighter. "I know what you meant."

Coulson waited patiently to see if Clint would elaborate.

"From what I've seen, I'd guess you guys operate kinda like the military. You have rules and hierarchies. I'm not that good with rules. You also look like you'd want me to be a team player. I'm not good at that either, I'm not exactly a huge fan of people," shrugged Clint as he took another mouthful of soda.

"I didn't ask you to be either one of those things," stated Coulson. Clint sighed as he folded his arms across his chest, slouching down in the chair. "What I asked was if you wanted a job. There's no catch."

"There's always a catch," muttered Clint.

"You've seen what's here, what exactly do you have to go back to out there?" asked Coulson indicating the outside world, he was starting to get slightly irritated with the younger man. "One of our agents managed to compile a list of all the most wanted lists you're on. Once we figured out that you were the infamous Hawkeye it wasn't that hard. Would you like to have a guess at how many he found?"

Clint only shrugged. He could probably name three of those lists for certain and have a good guess at naming another two.

"Thirteen," answered Coulson. "Some of those are government lists. Now I know you're good at going unnoticed, but how long do you think it'll be until somebody catches up to you? How long until somebody puts a bullet in you that you can't recover from?" Coulson sighed. He didn't know how to make the kid see that joining SHIELD really was his only option if he wanted to see life past his twenty-third birthday.

"You join SHIELD and I can make those government lists go away. I could probably find a way of getting rid of the others, given enough time."

Clint clenched his fists in anger as he stared at Coulson. If looks could kill, Coulson knew he'd be dead right now. Which is when it hit him, he'd been going about Barton's recruitment all wrong. He could show Barton equipment and resources until he was blue in the face. It wouldn't matter. Barton didn't care about possessions which should have been obvious from the apartment they'd found Barton living in. It wasn't even about being offered security or a place to call home. It was about trust. The kid had been looking for the so called catch ever since they'd first met. Everything Coulson had said, Barton was analysing and looking for the lie. If he was really going to convince Barton to join SHIELD and become an agent he'd have to do something a whole lot more dramatic than just give the kid a tour. He was going to have to be transparently honest and prove to the kid that he really did have a choice in what happened from here on out.

"Come with me," Coulson said standing up and leaving the canteen. Clint rolled his eyes, he was starting to feel like a dog, following this guy around. But he got up all the same and followed Coulson out of the room. The alternative was staying in the canteen and being watched by the creepy guy in the corner who everybody else in the room was scared off. The man was half blind and looked like a pirate wearing that eye patch. How could a man with a disability like that be so scary?

Coulson led the way to the motor pool, grabbing the keys for one of the SUV's he signed it out and got in the driver's seat. Opening the passenger door from the inside he looked to see Barton staring at him in confusion.

"Unless you've decided in the last two minutes that it took us to walk here that you do want to become an agent, I suggest you get in the car," ordered Coulson.

Clint got in, more out of curiosity over where Coulson might be taking him now. Which if he thought about it, that might not be anywhere good. Maybe Coulson had given up on his job pitch and was just going in for the kill. Clint still had the wire and two screws in his pocket, if needed he could use those as a weapon. He'd killed a guy with a paperclip before, all be it a large one but he had done it. He just had to make sure that he was faster than Coulson.

"Where are we going?" asked Clint when they drove off the base. Adrenaline starting to flood into his blood stream. He slipped his hand in to his pocket and gripped the wire.

"New York City," answered Coulson keeping his eyes on the road. "We're about two hours out."

"Why?"

"Because you need to make a choice and it's not fair for me to ask when I'm breathing down your neck."

Clint stared at Coulson. He didn't understand. What was Coulson getting out of all this? Could it really be that he was doing as he said, trying to be fair? Though that didn't seem to add up. This man had tracked him half way across the world, kidnapped him and now he was just going to let him go. Clint prided himself on being able to judge people. Most people he could read like an open book, knew when they were lying before they even opened their mouth and tried to spin a fast tale. But Coulson was different and it bugged the hell out of Clint not being able to figure this guy out. So for the next two hours and twenty-three minutes Clint contemplated every possible scenario he could think off and their outcomes. Whatever happened he'd be ready.

"Where are we?" asked Clint when Coulson stopped the car.

"Central Park. This is where you get off," said Coulson.

"I don't understand."

"I've shown you what SHIELD has to offer, now it's time to make your decision. You've got one week. If you're not back here by 16:00 on Wednesday then I'll assume that you've decided that you want to go it alone," explained Coulson. What he had to say next he knew wouldn't sit well with Barton, but he was trying to be honest and with honesty he hoped there came trust.

"If that is the case, and you do decide to go it alone then you better be very good at hiding because if SHIELD ever finds you again there will be no more chances. You will be imprisoned without trial in a top security prison which I doubt even you could escape."

Clint stared at Coulson as he told him the one scenario Clint hadn't thought of. Coulson was letting him go in one of the most populated cities in America. There might possibly be more CCTV camera's here than there were people but getting lost in a crowd was child's play for Clint. Which was just one more thing that didn't make sense with this guy.

Coulson reached into the back seat of the car and handed Clint a black jacket. "Barton I'm telling you this because I want you to make the right choice. Not because me or anybody else is telling you too. But because _you_ want to. Because _you_ want a new start," Coulson sighed. "I stand by what I said in your apartment, I don't think you're one of the bad guys."

Without saying anything Clint got out of the car, feeling more confused than ever. He stood and watched as Coulson sped off as soon as the door was closed. Now what did he do?

-A-


	9. Chapter 9

**AN:** Thank you to everybody who has read and reviewed so far. I'm putting an extra warning here for this chapter because I have escalated the violence factor. If anybody things that I should increase the rating then please do let me know. Enjoy.

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-A-

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Clint didn't know how long he stood on the sidewalk after Coulson had driven off. Staring after him. He'd been ditched. Yup, that was what he was calling it. He'd been ditched. But why did he care? He now had exactly what he wanted. He was free of Moretti - thanks to Coulson. He was now even free of Coulson and his incessant prodding about being a better man and serving a purpose. Unless that was just a rouse? Clint looked down at the jacket Coulson had handed him. Had he bugged it? Maybe put a tracking device inside? If even half the stories he'd heard about SHIELD were true then they wouldn't just let him go. Would they? Now he was just confused.

Clint turned around and started walking in the opposite direction that Coulson had drove off in. Not taking any chances, he gave the jacket to the first homeless guy he saw. Let SHIELD follow that guy around for a while. Looking down at himself he realised he had to get rid of his jeans and t-shirt too. For starters they were still covered in his own blood, which might go unnoticed in a place like New York but more importantly he'd been unconscious for far to long in the company of the unknown. They could have stuck a tracker on either one of them. Groaning Clint realised he'd have to get rid of his boots as well. He'd had these boots for years, he'd worn them in just right. Actually now that he really thought about it he'd have to somehow scan his whole body. He wouldn't put it past a super secret black ops organisation to have his actual body low jacked.

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Getting lost in the crowds of New York City was easy. Everybody here was wrapped up in their own little world, concerned with only their own problems. It made going unnoticed so much easier. There were people everywhere, which meant lifting wallets was a piece of cake. Just taking the cash he ditched the cards and wallets before entering the first department store he saw. Clint didn't care much for what clothes he wore, providing they were practical and they let him blend in. He picked up a pair of black cargo pants and a grey long sleeve t-shirt, coupled with a black hooded jacket. He also bought a pair of black running shoes, he didn't have time to locate a decent pair of light weight boots with the correct grip. Then just because he was being extra paranoid he bought new underwear and socks. He'd have to check his lock picks over very carefully later for bugs. He wouldn't part with those unless he absolutely had to. They weren't just your ordinary lock picks, he had some very specific tools in his case. Not to mention that he'd had to barter with one very dangerous woman to get them.

Once he'd paid for the items, (because shoplifting this many items in New York was just way too much hassle and he was on a tight schedule) he used a public bathroom to get changed. There he took the time to go through the pockets and feel along the seams of his old items to try and find the bug. Nothing. Not a single stitch out of place, well except for the ones that he pulled himself to hold wires and other useful odds and ends at times. Deciding that he still couldn't be too careful he would give each item of clothing to a different homeless person. They were a dime a dozen in New York, so if he had missed the bug then SHIELD could now be following anyone of eight people. Potentially.

Before he left, Clint pulled off the bandage that somebody at SHIELD had stuck to his head. Looking in the mirror Clint could see there was a small gash running from his hairline down. The bruising around the cut was going a nice shade of purple and was tender to touch. Flattening down the front of his hair, Clint tried to hide the wound as best he could.

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Not taking any chances though he was still going to find a medical clinic, the smaller the better. There was plenty within the city to choose from, but he needed the right clinic. One with the right amount of integrity that would help him out without trying to screw him over but also with enough greed to do what he wanted without them asking to many questions. The best way to find what he wanted, and quickly was an internet search. Clint would be the first to admit that he didn't have a lot of experience with computers, there wasn't a great need for them when you had spent most of your life living in a tent. But he could pull off a basic internet search. Finding an internet cafe he settled into the most secluded corner he could find, with his back to the wall he could see the door and all the patrons including the one and only member of staff. Less than an hour later he had all the information he needed plus a bit extra and he was on his way.

Clint had only ever been to New York on two occasions before this. Both times had been while he was working for Moretti. The first time he'd accompanied Moretti himself for a job that required a close contact kill when Moretti had met with another business man who was also of questionable legality. That job had gone off without a hitch, cementing Moretti's opinion of Clint for the better. The second time he'd been sent up here with the brothers Luca and Marco. That was when he truly understood how twisted the two men were.

The three of them had been sent to take out a rival family. Though the term _'take out'_ didn't fit the situation. A better word would be execution. Twenty-three people in total. He'd gone in and done his job without thought until he was staring down at the big blue eyes of little Sofia D'Angelo. Gun in hand and he couldn't pull the trigger. He didn't have many rules anymore, in fact he thought he might only have one left. He wouldn't kill a kid. Especially not a four year old girl who didn't chose the family she was born into. But before Clint could decide what to do with her a gunshot sounded and he was suddenly covered in blood. Luca had shot her in the head. He was in a state of shock and for that reason alone he didn't see the fist that impacted with his head. Luca beat him black and blue right there and then. Then he ordered Clint to get up and walk back to the car. The job was finished. The three of them had slaughtered an entire family just because Moretti had decided he no longer liked the father.

The only thing in common that the two jobs had was that on both occasions he'd attended a backstreet poker game. Not that he was the one playing back then, nor was he intending to play now. He was going to pay the game a visit though, he needed money and lots of it if he was going to provide an apt bribe for the clinic he had chosen. After all being just one man he could hardly hold the place hostage.

There was always a lot of cash lying around at the game and never more than a dozen men in there, though all of them would more than likely be armed. Currently, Clint didn't have a weapon on him but he knew there would only be one man posted outside the door that led to the game. That way suspicion wouldn't arise from him appearing to loiter in the alleyway. He was the man who controlled access to the game. You had to have the right pass codes or you were more likely to get a bullet to the head. But it did mean that getting the gun he definitely would be carrying would be easier than if he had friends with him. Of course it would still be risky, and the possibility of him getting shot in return once he entered the room was still higher than he would have liked.

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Clint sat on a rooftop four blocks over from where the game was being held. Pulling out his lock picks he started going over each and every one of them very carefully. They were all in the right order, all facing the right way, exactly how he had left them. There were no extra gizmos attached to the picks themselves or the case they were contained in. Maybe it was microscopic? He wouldn't put it past SHIELD having that kind of technology. He knew for a fact that Stark Industries had developed some kind of micro technology because he'd stolen the research for some nut job named Hammer several years ago. But from what he remembered from the papers he had sneaked a look at it would have left some kind of residue on the picks. These were clean, not perfectly clean like they had been wiped down, but on close examination he could only see his own fingerprints on the metal. Though he had to admit that blowing his breath on the metal and counting the whirls present was not an acurate way to detect fingerprints but it was the best he had. Conclusion, nobody had messed with his picks. Good, he was going to need them.

Deciding to travel by rooftop to where the game was being held, just because he could. Jumping from building to building knowing that he was the only one up here, it was exhilarating. This was what freedom was. Maybe it didn't matter who owned him, because he knew that no matter where he was in the world, he'd always have this feeling and nobody could take that away from him. Rolling his eyes at his own sappyness Clint pushed himself harder and jumped higher as he tried to top the adrenaline high he currently had.

Landing on the last rooftop, Clint peered over the edge of the building to look down. Just like he had predicted there was only one guy standing next to the door that led to the game. Even better was that the guy appeared bored. He was leaning against the brick wall of the building with a cigarette in one hand while his other hand was behind his back, trapped between his body and the wall. Now it could be that the guy was just playing bored and his hand was actually gripped around the handle of his gun which he stored at the back of his waistband. But Clint didn't think that was true.

Smirking to himself he walked towards the nearest fire escape. Quickly and quietly he moved down to the landing of the first floor. The doorman was still smoking his cigarette and looking towards the other end of the alleyway where the street was. Climbing silently onto the railing he jumped down to the ground, rolling with the impact Clint came up two foot in front of the startled doorman. Striking out with his left fist he connected with the guys neck. The man dropped his cigarette and to Clint's surprise the gun he had a hold of, guess he really was playing at being bored. Not that it helped him much. The guy was dead before he hit the ground. His windpipe was crushed, possibly even a fractured neck. Clint didn't care, he'd done what he had intended to.

Picking up the discarded gun, Clint checked the mag and the slide action, it was loaded and appeared in working order. Not that he expected anything less but he'd be a fool if he didn't check. Holding the gun in his left hand he listened carefully to the door, but he couldn't hear anything. Nor did he expect to, the game room was about five meters down the hall with another door that would most likely be closed.

Turning the door handle he held the gun out in front of him as he opened the door and stepped inside. The hallway was clear and lit by a single bulb that cast very little light, dragging the dead body of the doorman inside he closed the door before starting to walk towards the closed door that was at the end of the hall. This close to the inside door he could now hear people talking and moving around inside, but he didn't know how many would be sat down and playing the game or how many bodyguards were in the room or where they would be positioned. It was a logistical nightmare even if he did know the basic layout of the room. Six feet inside the door would be the back of the first player. The large round table could seat up to six men. There was a well stocked drinks bar to the left of the room with another access door that led out into the main club. This time of day the club wouldn't be open and even if it were the game room was soundproofed. Nobody would come running to see what all the fuss was about.

Taking in a deep breath Clint let it out slowly before kicking the door open with as much force as he could manage, he had fired two shots before the door even hit the wall. One bullet hit the closest player in the back of the head, the second bullet hit the furthest guard that was facing the door. Diving behind the body of the dead player that was slumped in the chair, Clint had already sighted his next targets. Two guards on the right side of the room, both went down with shots to the chest. The player to his right also went down with a shot first to the leg which dropped him to the floor then another to the head. Gripping the edge of the table Clint flipped it so it created a shield, simultaneously shooting the player that was facing the door before crouching down. The two guards on the left side of the room now had their guns out and were firing back at Clint. Bullets went through the wooden table, showering Clint in splinters. Staying exactly where he was he waited until he heard the familiar click of mags being released, only then did he stand up and shoot the two guards in the head who were in the middle of reloading.

The room was now silent as blood soaked bills drifted slowly to the ground. Clint scanned the room, eight bodies. Five guards and three players. He was sure when he had kicked the door in there had been four players. He was missing the player that sat on the left side of the table. The only place to hide in this room was behind the bar. Aiming the gun at the top shelf of liqueur he shot what he recognised as a very pricey bottle of bourbon. The glass shattered on impact, shards falling to the ground. A yell of surprise sounded before the missing player stood up and pulled the trigger of an automatic weapon. Clint dived to the floor as the guy sprayed the room with bullets. Four seconds later and the guy was out of ammunition. Rolling his eyes at the ineptitude of this guy Clint jumped to his feet and fired a single shot into the guys chest. The player dropped the weapon in surprise as he fingered the growing stain of blood on the front of his shirt, he looked up in shock at Clint before he collapsed face first onto the bar.

Keeping a hold of his gun Clint moved towards the bar, pulling the dead man off the top he winced as pain shot though his left arm. The top of his shirt and jacket were torn and blood was pooling the area. _Damn it_, he'd been shot. Gritting his teeth, he prodded the area carefully, determining that the bullet had only skimmed him and that the wound wasn't too deep. Ignoring it for the time being he crouched down and behind the bar and looked at the safe he had come for. There was nothing fancy about this safe, just a plain and simple turn mechanism. All Clint had to do was listen for the clicks. Safe cracking wasn't his best skill but he was proficient enough that it didn't take him long before he had the door open. Grabbing a briefcase one of the players must of brought with them, he emptied the contents before filling it with as much money as it could fit into it. Which considering that they weren't neatly stacked nor any of them new bills it would hardly be the million dollars you see in the movies. But he didn't need a million, he just needed enough that it would be more than one _patient_ would normally pay at a private clinic.

With the money now secure it was time he disposed of the evidence that he had been here. Normally he wouldn't bother doing anything specific other than burning the place to the ground, but this was New York after all, they had one of the better police forces he'd come across in his travels. Securing his gun at the back of his waistband he first used his sleeve to wipe down anything he touched. He then began to pour the very expensive and much to his delight very flammable alcohol that was stored above the bar and in those stored in the crates at the back of the room over the nine dead bodies, the remaining money that was littered around the room and quite frankly anything else he thought would burn. The dead doorman that he had dragged inside he brought further into the game room before he used one of the players own lighters to start the fire. The interior door was currently hanging off its hinges so he left it where he was before using the sleeve of his jacket to open the exterior door and close it behind him, remembering to wipe the outside handle too. Then using the fire escape he'd jumped from earlier he climbed back up to the roof. He dropped the gun three blocks over in a deralict water tower, that clearly wasn't in use anymore but did contain enough water that the gun was submerged completely. It was also out of reach of any curious kids. Just because he had been a killer before he'd reached double digits didn't mean he was going to encourage anyone to follow in his footsteps.

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-A-

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Clint waited outside the clinic he'd chosen until the secretary locked the front door and left. He knew that the good and hopefully bribe-able doctor who owned the private clinic was still inside. Slipping out his picks he made short work of the back door and let himself inside. He found one Doctor Stanley Hargreaves in his office sitting at his desk.

"There's twenty five thousand dollars in there to do with whatever you like," Clint said to the doctor as he marched into the office and dumped the briefcase on the desk. "All I want is a CT scan of my whole body."

The doctor looked up at Clint in shock. It took a moment while the man gasped like a fish before he finally got any words out.

"If...if you'd like to make an appointment with..."

"I don't want an appointment. I'm here now. This is rather important to me, you might even call it life and death," smirked Clint. "All I ask is that you don't discuss my being here with anybody. That includes your secretary and mistress Monica or your wife Juliette. I would certainly advise not saying anything to your former wife Katherine or she'll be after more in alimony."

The doctor huffed in amusement as he ran a hand through his rapidly depleting hair. Clint leaned forward and opened the briefcase and showed the doctor the money. "You can count it if you like."

"All this just for a scan?" asked Hargreaves.

"And your discretion," shrugged Clint. He let the man think the proposal over for a few minutes.

"Anything in particular that you are looking for?" asked Hargreaves as he closed the lid of the briefcase and pulled it towards himself slightly.

"I've absolutely no idea, but I'm sure you'll know it when you see it."

Hargreaves arched an eyebrow in curiosity at the younger man before standing up. "If you'd like to follow me."

The doctor lead the way out of the office and towards the scanner. "Get changed into a pair of scrubs and remove any jewelry," explained the doctor as he pointed to a changing room. "When you're ready come straight in here and I'll have the scanner ready and waiting."

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-A-

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"Well, you're in perfect health," shrugged the doctor. "That is if you don't count the numerous old fractures you have throughout your body, some of which look barely healed."

"Nothing else?" asked Clint in confusion as he stared down at the computer monitor that showed the pictures of his scan, not that he knew what he was looking at.

"Perhaps if you told me what you were looking for, I'd know where to look."

"Is there anything electrical or mechanical inside of me?" asked Clint.

"No, it's just you. Though looking at the old fracture of your left radius I'm surprised they didn't pin it," pointed out Hargreaves as he brought up the image of Clint's arm. "How old were you at the time, twelve? Thirteen maybe?"

"Maybe it's nanotechnology?" muttered Clint to himself ignoring the way the doctor was now looking at him. "Do you have an MRI scanner here?"

"Yes, but I don't know what more I can tell you. You're in perfect health," sighed the doctor.

"I don't want another scan. If I do have some kind of nano-tech inside of me the magnetic field of the scanner would disrupt the electrical field of the nano-thingies, right?"

"Sounds plausible," shrugged the doctor. "You can't take phones, swipe cards or other electrical devices into the room without them being wiped clean. And I doubt there would be enough metal content in the 'nano-thingies' to get pulled out of you body by the elctronic field," Hargreaves explained, though his only thoughts now was that the young man in front of him was certifiably crazy. No normal person thought they had nano-bots inside of them. It was science fiction, stuff of comic books and movies.

"That'll do, where's the MRI scanner?"

"Next door," said the doctor leading the way.

Clint stood in the room of the MRI scanner for about thirty seconds. He had no idea if this would work, of course he also had no idea if he was just being completely paranoid. Maybe that was SHIELD's big plan, make him second guess every decision he made from this point on.

"Would you like me to fix your arm while you're here?" asked the doctor pointing to the bloodstain on the scrub top Clint was wearing when he came out of the room that housed the MRI scanner.

Clint looked down at his arm, he'd forgotten all about that. "Sure."

Sitting on an examination table Clint watched as the doctor cleaned the wound in his arm to reveal a long but fairly shallow gash which the doctor determined did not need stitching. Much to Clint's relief. Applying a few steri-strips to keep the wound closed, gauze was secured with tape over the top before the doctor wrapped his arm in a bandage to keep it all in place. Handing Clint some extra supplies to take with him and instructions on keeping the wound clean to avoid infection Clint got dressed then left the clinic after giving strict instructions to remove all trace that he'd been there coupled with a well placed threat and a look that showed he could be nothing more than a cold blooded killer if he wanted to be.

Standing outside the clinic with just under five thousand dollars stuffed into his pockets and spare medical supplies in his hands he came to the startling conclusion that he was more confused than ever. There was no tracking device. Coulson had actually let him go. Just like he said he had. No men in black had jumped out at any point over the course of the day when he'd got rid of his possessions, and standing here now in the middle of the sidewalk the street was empty of activity and there was no shadows on the roofs. He was completely alone. For the first time in his life he was truly by himself. He didn't know whether he should celebrate his situation or just go and find a very good place to hide.

What he did know was that he couldn't stay here. He had around one hundred and fifty hours until Coulson's deadline was up. Plenty of time to come up with a plan. But in the mean time he needed to go back to Baltimore. Probably not the smartest thing he'd ever thought about doing but when Coulson had kidnapped him, and yes, he was still going to call it that. He'd left behind the one thing Clint cared about. It was time he got it back. Whatever he decided, he knew that the unstrung bow in his apartment was going with him.

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-A-

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Coulson slammed the door to the SUV closed before marching towards the desk to sign the vehicle back in. He'd just signed his name when he felt a familiar presence behind him.

"Sir?" asked Coulson as he turned to face Fury.

"What did you do with the kid?"

"I dropped him in New York."

"You did what?" asked Fury in shock. His voice carrying throughout the garage making the few people in the place turn and stare at the director. "Explain."

"Barton wouldn't have joined us just because we showed him some cool toys," sighed Coulson as he started to walk away. He knew he was pushing the Director's patience by turning his back on the older man, but Coulson couldn't quite seem to care. The four hour round trip had tired him out and his mind kept going over the decision and debating whether it was the right one or not.

"So you just let him leave?" called Fury after him, not moving from his spot. "Tell me you put a tracker on him?"

"Yes, I let him leave, and no I didn't put a tracker on him."

"Agent Coulson!" Fury called raising his voice slightly which had all other agents cringing slightly. Coulson however meerly turned around slowly and faced the director.

"Director Fury, I let Barton go because I came to the startling realisation that I'd actually gone about recruiting him all wrong. This was my last ditch effort to make things right. I've given him a week and then I'll go back. If he decided to join us, it will be his decision and his alone."

The two men stared at each other waiting to see who would break first. In the end it was Fury who broke the tension by smiling. "You're playing a risky game, Coulson."

"One I learnt from the best," smiled Coulson wearily.

-A-


End file.
